


pick lilacs for the passing time

by astralelegies



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Dance, Ballet, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Dance Conservatory, F/F, Friendship, Gen, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Otabek is 17, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Yuri Plisetsky is 16/17 in this, mild description of dance-related injury, oh look it's another ballet au, some more-than-friendship too, sorry victor, the other ages have been scrabbled around b/c no one is 27 and still at dance school
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-09-12 04:39:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 68,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9055756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astralelegies/pseuds/astralelegies
Summary: A spark flares up inside him, the vestige of some part of himself he thought long buried now resurfacing to—what, haunt him? And then he realizes.I want to dance with him, Yuuri thinks. ~In which the outlandish prodigy Victor Nikiforov hits Yuuri’s life like a whirlwind after he transfers to a prestigious ballet conservatory in Moscow, two grumpy teenagers learn to be friends, and Mila’s Straight Girl CrushTM might not be so straight after all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know this has already been done a hundred times over, but this idea has been banging around in my brain for a month and I couldn’t resist the opportunity. Please note that aside from research my practical experience with ballet and the schools where it is taught is limited to a few years of technique classes and marathoning Dance Academy, so let me know if you see any inaccuracies crop up. I’m planning to update every Monday and Thursday (CST), but this is being posted a day early in honor of Victor Nikiforov’s birthday. Title from David Bowie's "My Death"
> 
> Thanks for reading!

The weather is already growing cooler in Moscow. 

Hunched next to the conservatory sign with its elegant lettering—l’Academie du ballet international de Moscou—Yuuri shivers, pulling his thin jacket tighter around him. It isn’t really cold, but the last time he was outside he was in Hasetsu, Japan, at the tail end of an especially humid summer. It’s nearly autumn here; the sky is a soft grey, and a dry breeze ruffles Minako’s hair. 

She holds the door open for him. “After you.” 

He steps carefully over the threshold, blinking his eyes to adjust to the softly-lit interior. It is August 31st. Tomorrow he will begin his training, and his life, he thinks, will change. 

Lilia Baranovskaya is an imposing figure. There are no chairs in front of her desk, and as he stands before her trying not to slouch, Minako smirking from the sidelines as though she’s seen this many times before, Yuuri feels oddly like a child with grubby palms, caught in the act of something unpleasant. He resists the urge to fidget. 

The headmistress is silent, pacing a slow circle around him, appraising him. She purses her lips, frowning here and there, until at last, after several minutes, she speaks. 

“You are the new transfer?”

“Oui, madame.” 

“Your posture is good but your form is sloppy. Physically you are a disaster. How long were you on hiatus?”

His eyes flicker to the floor. “Six months.”

“And did you dance at all during that time?”

“A little. I know with a lot of hard work I can improve my form and do better than before.” 

“It _is_ hard work.” Her gaze is ferocious. “Are you really certain you are prepared for what that entails?” 

“I am.”

She is still frowning at him, but her face has softened to something that isn’t quite approval but could be acceptance. 

“Very well,” she says. “Your French, at least, is serviceable enough, though some instructors still prefer to conduct parts of their lessons in Russian. It is your responsibility to keep up.”

“I understand,” he says. 

“Minako. Show the boy to his room.” 

“Right away.” She takes Yuuri’s arm, and they nod their respects to Madame Baranovskaya on their way out. 

“You held up under inspection,” Minako murmurs as she guides him in the direction of the dormitories. “I’m proud.” 

“She was very intimidating,” he says. “I hope I didn’t say anything too stupid.” 

“You were fine. Are you nervous for tomorrow?” 

He nods. Ordinarily it isn’t something he’d be so ready to admit to, but this is Minako, after all. “I’m glad you’re teaching one of my first classes. It’ll be nice to see a familiar face.” 

“There’ll be few enough of those here.” She stops outside a door halfway down the hall, pulling out a key and handing it to Yuuri. “Let’s see if your new roommate’s around.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“Oh yes. Phichit has what you might call a reputation.” 

Yuuri isn’t sure he likes the sound of that. Minako knocks once, and the door flies open almost immediately, the boy behind it bearing a smile and an outstretched hand. 

“You must be Yuuri! I’m Phichit Chulanont. I’m a fourth year. You too, right? Oh, is that Madame Okukawa I see behind you?”

“Hello, Phichit. You’ve had an eventful summer, from the looks of it.” 

“The Instagram pictures are cool, huh? Touring in Thailand was amazing, I’m so happy I had the opportunity.” He slings his arm around Yuuri’s shoulder. “And speaking of opportunities…”

Before Yuuri can react he’s pulled out his phone, snapping a quick picture of the two of them. 

“Gotta get a selfie with my new roomie.” 

Yuuri nods, a little dazed, and Minako casts him an amused glance. 

“Phichit,” she says, “why don’t we give Yuuri some time to unpack his things? You can tell me more about your summer.”

“Of course.” He waves Yuuri into the room. “Take all the time you need. Give a shout if you want any help.”

The door closes, and Yuuri is left to inspect his surroundings. 

It’s a small chamber of relatively spartan design, but he doesn’t mind. It will allow him to focus more on his training. There are two bunks on opposite sides of the room. Phichit’s is lofted with a desk and chair underneath, a few boxes stacked in a heap at its feet. He’s done his best to give the room personality—his walls are covered with posters and photographs. A frame on his desk shows him with two other boys in front of Saint Basil’s Cathedral, grinning widely and rather mischievously out at the camera. 

Yuuri looks down at his own bags, rifling through one of them for the signed playbill from when he went to see the Tokyo Ballet for his eighteenth birthday. He pins it up by his bedside. 

_Well_ , he thinks. _It’s a start._

Phichit returns sometime in the late afternoon, and they start in on the usual icebreaker questions. Yuuri learns that his roommate trained in Detroit but is from Bangkok originally, the first Thai dancer to be admitted to the academy. His favorite film is _The King and the Skater_ , and the faces on the desktop photograph belong to Leo de la Iglesia and Guang-Hong Ji, their fellow classmates. 

“So what about you?” Phichit folds his arms, leaning back against the bedpost in a decidedly un-dancerish way. “What made you decide to transfer here?” 

“Advancing my career, I guess.” Yuuri isn’t sure he can explain it in a few short, catchy sentences. “I was on hiatus for a few months after I graduated from my old school, trying to figure out what I wanted to do, and this is where it led me. Minako’s my old ballet teacher, she’s the one who recommended the place to me.” 

“I’m surprised they let you in after you were on break,” says Phichit. “The Bear is pretty strict.”

“And kind of terrifying,” says Yuuri. “Is everyone here like her?”

“Some, but not all. Yakov can be harsh, but he’s not so bad once you’re used to him. Celestino’s kind of the opposite. He seems nice, but don’t let him fool you into thinking he won’t come down on you like hellfire if you’re not giving your best effort.”

Yuuri lets out a long breath. “Sounds like I have a lot to catch up on.”

“You have no idea.” Phichit brightens suddenly. “Hey, you should come to dinner with me. I’ll introduce you to the other two-thirds of the trinity.”

“The trinity?”

“Officially unofficial group name. You’ll see.”

“Ah.”

Yuuri wonders if he means the two other boys in his photograph, and is proved right when Leo and Guang-Hong join them in the dining hall. They each shake Yuuri’s hand enthusiastically and then launch into a lively discussion on some summer event that Phichit captured on his Instagram. Yuuri mostly listens; their words are flying from mouth to mouth in a bizarre hybrid of French and English, and some of the finer points of the conversation pass him by. He hardly registers what he’s eating—something Russian and unfamiliar but good, he thinks—and afterwards he asks Phichit quietly if any of the practice rooms are open to students at this hour. 

“Of course,” he says. “Would you like me to show you where they are?” 

Yuuri declines the offer, thanking him, although privately he isn’t half sure he knows how to find anything in this place. But he thinks he would like to wander around a little, alone, get his bearings. 

Phichit points him in the direction of the right building, at least, and he watches the sun set over the rooftops of Moscow as he makes the short walk up the path. After stumbling through a few darkened corridors, he thinks he’s found the hall of open practice rooms. He peers through the doorways, trying to find one that is both available and out of the way. Most appear empty, but he is struck suddenly by a slow, melancholy music drifting towards him, and without really thinking about it he gravitates to its source. 

The last room in the hall is occupied, the door cracked open just slightly, just enough for Yuuri to peer tentatively through. 

The only illumination is the last of the day’s light filtering through a high window on the back wall, casting a shadow across the boy at the center of the marley floor. His back is to Yuuri, but the reflection in the row of mirrors at the front displays a flash of silver hair and ocean-blue eyes, an almost wistful countenance. 

He dances languidly, not out of a lack of motivation but with a deliberate intention behind every movement, a confident, steady energy flowing through the tips of his fingers. His gestures are amazingly precise; Yuuri tries to take in the intricacy he watches, the back of his brain telling him he should stop staring while the rest of him is stuck as though paralyzed to the spot.

It’s not like any style of ballet he’s seen before. All of the classical technique is present, but there’s something else too, something that feels achingly contemporary. The rhythmic fluidity in the way he carries himself has Yuuri utterly transfixed. 

The boy spins around, and the illusion is shattered. 

“I’m sorry!” Yuuri blurts, hands flying to his mouth. “I didn’t mean to—I’m so _so_ sorry.” 

He’s out the door before the stranger has time to react. He thinks he hears a hurried _wait!_ called after him, but his heart is pounding too loudly for him to care. He doesn’t dare go in any of the other studios. Instead, he runs all the way back to the dormitories. 

Phichit is in the middle of a movie when Yuuri gets in, but as soon as he glances up he pulls off his headphones, a look of concern blooming on his face. 

“Yuuri? Is everything alright?”

“I’m fine,” he wheezes. Phichit is evidently doubtful.

“Weren’t you going to practice in one of the studios?”

“I…was.” 

“Something happened.”

“Nothing _bad_.” Yuuri pauses. “I walked in on someone dancing and then ran away. It was embarrassing.”

“Is that all?” Phichit seems faintly amused. “From your expression I thought Christophe had propositioned you in a dark alley.” He puts a hand over his mouth. “Oh my god. You didn’t catch him dancing, did you?”

“I…don’t know.”

“Was there a stripper pole involved?”

Yuuri shakes his head.

“Then no, probably not.” 

“I don’t know who he was,” says Yuuri. “I left before he could say anything. He didn’t seem that much older than us.” 

“I wonder…” Phichit stops. “Well. This place is small enough that everyone knows each other, in one way or another. You can point him out to me tomorrow, if we see him.” 

Yuuri nods and hopes they don’t. 

The next morning marks his first official day of class, the start of the new semester. Phichit is subdued but cheerful, while Yuuri stumbles blearily through his usual routine, having spent more time staring at the ceiling than sleeping. 

“Rough night?” Phichit’s grin is knowing. “It’s okay. We’ve all been there. Are you ready to face the Bear?”

Yuuri glances down at his schedule. Madame Baranovskaya is teaching their first lesson. He mumbles a halfhearted reply to Phichit, but the truth, of course, is that he is not at all ready, and the knot in his stomach seems to be tightening. 

He makes his way to the studio, trailing behind his roommate, mind churning amidst the murmur of friends reuniting after a summer apart. He’s far too absorbed to really pay attention to where he’s going, so much so that he slams into someone heading the opposite direction and half-trips, catching himself on his back foot before he can go sprawling. 

“I’m really sorry,” he starts, thinking that since it’s a phrase he seems to be using so often here he should learn how to say it in Russian, but the stranger cuts him off, jabbing him in the chest. 

“Watch where you’re _going_ , asshole.” 

Yuuri doesn’t think he’s ever seen so much rage condensed into such a slight figure, but it doesn’t make him any less afraid for his life.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter this time, and the kid just glares at him. 

“Idiot. You’re just lucky I didn’t break anything or you’d be in _big_ trouble.”

“Such a sharp tongue, Yura.” Someone steps behind the kid, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Yuuri grips Phichit’s arm, hard. The angry stranger spits, shrugging out of his companion’s grasp. 

“God, Victor. Why can’t you just stick to jerking it to your own ego and leave me alone?”

Victor laughs lightly, but his eyes are narrowed. “If you keep running that mouth of yours you’ll be late to class.”

“Whatever.” But the kid moves on, tossing them one last dirty look over his shoulder. 

“Sorry about that,” says Victor, running a hand through his bangs. “He can be quite a handful at times.” He offers them a cordial smile. “You’re Phichit Chulanont, right? I don’t believe your friend and I have been introduced.” 

Phichit nudges Yuuri with his foot, but his ability to form comprehensible sentences seems to have vanished. Victor waits patiently. 

“This is my roommate, Yuuri Katsuki,” says Phichit. “He’s a new transfer.” 

“A pleasure.” Victor sticks out his hand. Yuuri stares at it for a few seconds, and Phichit kicks him. He shakes it, managing to unstick his throat long enough to mumble something that doesn’t resemble a real word in any of the languages he’s familiar with. 

“We should be going,” says Phichit, wrapping an arm around Yuuri’s shoulder and leading him gently away. Victor waves them on. 

“Um, Yuuri,” he says once they’re a safe distance away, prying his roommate’s fingers from his arm and wincing a little. “What was all that about?” 

“That’s the person I saw dancing.”

“Who, the blond shrimp?”

“No, the other one.”

“Wait.” Phichit stops walking, whirling around to face him. “You mean _Victor_?”

Yuuri shifts uneasily. “Yes?” 

“Oh.” He starts forward again. “Then everything makes perfect sense now.” 

“Wait.” Yuuri jogs after him. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’ve had your first run-in with the great Victor Nikiforov.”

“I don’t understand.” 

“Victor is what many would call a legend here,” Phichit explains. “Lifelong dance prodigy, national and international sensation. I’m actually surprised you haven’t heard of him.” 

“Now that you mention it, the name does sound familiar.” Yuuri frowns. “So…what, he takes lessons at the conservatory?” 

“He’s a fifth year. But he’s already been offered roles in the corps de ballet with the main company. It’s rare but it happens, for senior dancers to be granted a position. It’s even rarer for it to happen more than once.” 

“And that kid he was with?”

“Yuri Plisetsky. I’ve heard of him too. They call him the Russian Fairy. He came up from the Lower School last fall. Rumor has it he’s trying to do five years of coursework in only _three_.”

“That’s insane.”

“I know, right?” Phichit shakes his head. “All the rookies these days are crazy, pushing themselves to extremes just to stay ahead.” 

Yuuri nods slowly, trying to process everything and trying not to think too hard about it. He wants to question Phichit further, but they’ve finally arrived at their destination, and he becomes preoccupied with staying on his feet, maintaining his poise, remembering to breathe. The day will be difficult, but terribly necessary. The other students are lined up at the barre, in various stages of warming up, and Yuuri falls into place at the end of the row. 

They snap to attention the moment Madame Baranovskaya walks into the room. 

She holds her chin high, stalking down the line with all the command of an empress, the air thick with a hushed sort of reverence. Yuuri worries that she can hear his heart racing in the silence. 

“Another year.”

She takes a step back, appraising them like soldiers with her fiery gaze. 

“This is what you have ahead of you. One more year of constant, disciplined devotion to one of the world’s most respected artistic traditions. If you have managed to make it this far you will know that this is no easy feat. Nor should you fall under the impression that now that you are nearing the end you have nothing left to learn. These last years at the Academy will be the most grueling yet, and if anyone present is not prepared for such intensive labor, I invite them to leave immediately.”

The speech could be comical, a few lines of film-style rhetoric, but coming from the one-time prima ballerina of the Bolshoi Ballet no one dares to take it anything but seriously. She glares at them, far from the tallest person in the room but somehow towering above them all. 

“We are not like the other Russian schools. You want the Vaganova Method, go to Vaganova. We teach more than that here. The Moscow International Ballet is one of the world’s most cutting-edge companies in our field. With us you will go beyond what you thought you knew about dance.” 

She pauses a moment to let her words sink in, then claps her hands. “Enough with the formalities. In your previous studies each of you will have taken a classical approach to pas de deux. This semester you will learn how to take this technique in new, innovative directions. This is one of the most physically and intellectually demanding classes that you will have this year. For this reason, one of our most successful senior students will serve as my teaching assistant.”

Someone steps into the room, straight-backed and graceful, hovering just behind her, and Yuuri feels his heart sink. 

“Many of you know Victor Nikiforov,” says Madame Baranovskaya, “whether personally or by reputation. He is here as a resource to aide you in your exploration of the subject material. I trust you are all mature enough to take full advantage of his expertise.”

There’s some embarrassed shuffling amidst the students, a few rosy cheeks and abashed glances at the floor, quelled instantly by their instructor’s deepening frown. Yuuri has no doubt a whole host of people would like nothing more than to take advantage of Victor’s expertise, in every sense of the phrase. 

They’re supposed to partner up. These couplings, their instructor informs them, will last the entire semester, so they aught to choose carefully. But everyone here already knows each other, have all been working together for years now, and Yuuri is at the end of the line. There’s no one left to pair with him. 

“An uneven number.” Madame Baranovskaya purses her lips. “Where is Natalya Marinova?” 

“Her parents pulled her out of the Academy,” someone says. “She packed up her things and left this morning.”

_Against my permission_ , Yuuri thinks he hears the headmistress murmur. She considers him a moment, weighing her options, and then seems to come to a decision. 

“Very well,” she says. “Yuuri, you will be Victor’s partner this semester.”

There’s an audible gasp from some of the other students, out of shock or envy or some combination of the two, Yuuri can’t quite tell. His face is burning as he steps lightly across the room to join his new colleague. The silence in the air is strange and uncomfortable, and he can’t bring himself to meet anyone’s eyes. Victor is still staring straight ahead, patiently awaiting further direction. 

“You will have the entire class period to compose a five-minute sample of what pas de deux means to you, to be presented when next we meet. I will use this to judge your current understandings of the subject and tweak my curriculum as necessary.” 

This more than anything else is what cements Lilia Baranovskaya’s authority in Yuuri’s mind. No other instructor he knows of would dare suggest that their tradition is anything less than perfection. It takes guts to meddle with the classics. 

They’ve been released to work, and he realizes he should probably say something, instead of standing silently like a fool. 

“Yuuri Katsuki,” says Victor, and there’s that smile again, so easy and so uncommon here. “We meet again.” 

Yuuri can’t think of a reply, so he just nods, and Victor’s lips curve into something playful. 

“How fortunate I’ll get to watch _you_ dance this time, too.”

Yuuri feels his ears burning. 

“That was an accident,” he says, finding his voice. Victor raises a solitary eyebrow. 

“ _Really_?” His tone drips an amused skepticism. 

“Maybe I was just scouting my competition,” Yuuri says hotly, then bites his tongue. 

Victor looks like he’s about to respond, but Madame Baranovskaya throws a sharp glance their way, and he seems to change his mind. “Shall we get started?” 

Yuuri has been doing pas de deux since he was sixteen, but he knows he still has a long way to go before he comes anywhere close to mastery. Most people, he knows, are finished with their training by now—almost all the premier schools in the world offer somewhere between six and eight years of instruction, sometimes more, but only for the very young, teaching them to dance as soon as they can walk. By the time a person reaches his age they are expected to have taken a position with an actual company. But the Academy provides a syllabus unique to the other prestigious institutions, and when Yuuri finally completes his education he will receive both the professional Diploma for Dancers and an undergraduate degree in the performing arts. These, he thinks, are appropriate trade-offs. 

He wonders, as they stretch and begin some preliminary movements, how it must be for Victor. The world must be waiting for him to hurry up and graduate, find some reputable coalition of artists to join and work his way to the top like he’s supposed to. He’s already danced with the Moscow International Ballet; he’s supposed to be a prodigy. He’ll have his pick of jobs when the year is out. 

The two of them finish going through their warm up and pull apart. Yuuri doesn’t know how this bit is supposed to go. Victor is above him in course experience, and the teaching assistant besides. Does this mean he’ll expect to have control over the choreography, or will he want contributions? Yuuri isn’t even sure when he last made a composition, video audition for the Academy notwithstanding. 

“I can hear you thinking,” Victor says, and he starts. 

“Sorry.” There’s that word again. _I should really expand my vocabulary_ , he thinks. Victor seems to be waiting for something. 

“I was wondering what we should do,” says Yuuri. “For our choreography.” 

“Do you have any ideas?” 

He shakes his head. His mind was— _is_ —still too stuck on the reality of his situation to be concerned with artistry. 

“We’ll have to pick roles,” he says. 

Victor cocks his head. “Oh?” 

“Who’s lifting who.” 

“Ah.” Victor hums, considering it a moment. “Frankly, I’m fine with switching off. Do you usually?”

“What?” 

“Switch,” he breathes, and something in his voice makes Yuuri’s cheeks flush. 

“I haven’t really had the opportunity,” he mumbles. 

“That’s okay,” Victor tells him. He pauses. “In that case, what if I do the lifts for this composition? I’m sure later we can work out an arrangement for the rest of the semester.”

“An arrangement.” Yuuri swallows. “Alright.”

Victor grins at him, and launches into a description of the concept he’s just now forming for their choreography. The words “I’m still thinking it through” come up at least once, but when he demonstrates his ideas it’s only because Yuuri’s had a lot of training that he recognizes the lack of practice. _Is he really that good?_

He’s strong, too. Strong enough to lift Yuuri a significant amount, if only for brief moments. He’s not used to dancing this position, but he tries to give it his best effort. He catches Lilia Baranovskaya’s eyes on the pair of them several times throughout the class period. 

Once they’ve been released, she approaches him, holding him back as he’s about to make his way to the door. Phichit shoots him a questioning look, and Yuuri motions for him to go ahead without him. 

“I want you to do pointe work.” 

Yuuri isn’t sure if he’s heard her correctly at first—maybe she said _you’re missing the point of this work_ , that seems vastly more likely—but her expression is as serious as ever and he swallows nervously. 

“Pointe work?”

“Yes,” she says, impatient. “I believe the training will be beneficial to your form, and your application informs me that you have previously taken some classes.” 

“When I was fourteen,” says Yuuri, “to strengthen my feet.”

“So you will already know some of the technique.” Madame Baranovskaya scribbles something on her clipboard, then tears the page off and hands it to him. “Here is your schedule for the extra lessons. I am assigning Minako to be your instructor. You’ll have to do the majority of your practice outside of class, but I can excuse you from the partnering breakout session on Wednesdays.” 

Yuuri nods mutely, taking the paper and folding it into a side pocket of his bag. 

“We have more boys enrolled at the Academy than anyone else this year,” says Madame Baranovskaya softly, and her tone is far away but her eyes are still on Yuuri. “This is the first time that has happened. I think we may finally show the world that it must move beyond convention if this art form is to progress.” 

Yuuri isn’t sure how to respond to that, but before he can try, Madame Baranovskaya shakes her head as if to clear the thought away. 

“I am sure you have other lessons to attend to,” she says, and Yuuri takes this as a dismissal. 

Phichit is waiting for him outside the studio doors. 

“So? What did she want?” 

Yuuri hands him the schedule. 

“Extra pointe classes.” He whistles. “That’s intense. Did she tell you why?”

“She said it would help my form. But I think—I think she wants me to dance the part of the ballerina for pairs.”

“It’s you or Victor,” says Phichit, “and he’s taller.”

“I almost forgot.” Yuuri covers his face with his hands. “I’m sure our entire class hates me now.” 

“I wouldn’t say they _hate_ you. Some of them couldn’t care less.” 

“And some of them are contemplating slipping something in my food at dinner.” 

“True.” Phichit offers him a sympathetic clap on the back. “They’ll get over it eventually. And in the meantime, you’ve managed to secure yourself a partnership with the best dancer at the Academy.” 

“I guess,” Yuuri says, because if he’s being honest that’s what really scares him, more than any of the reactions of his peers or the (hopefully slim) possibility of revenge poisoning. 

The rest of the day is eventful, he knows—probably one of the most eventful days of his life so far, because he’s miles away from anything familiar and he can already tell that he’ll have to work harder than he ever has just to keep up—but somehow it’s all a blur. His mind keeps circling back to pointe lessons, to pas de deux, to Victor Nikiforov. 

When his parents call to ask how he’s getting on, he isn’t sure what to say. 

“Moscow is very big,” he tells them, and they talk for a while about the weather. 

His first session with Minako is the next day, in the early evening, when all his other classes are finished. Phichit, without being asked, promises to wait for him before going to dinner, and Yuuri is grateful. 

Minako is not at the studio when he arrives, but someone else is. The boy’s scowl grows deeper at his approach.

“Oh. It’s you.” 

“Um, Yuri? What are you doing here?” 

The second-year doesn’t seem surprised that Yuuri knows his name, nor does his expression lighten. If anything, his glare becomes more intense. 

“Pointe lessons,” he spits. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“I…” Yuuri runs a hand through his hair, caught off guard. “The same, actually.”

He looks down at the floor, away from what he imagines is another of the grimaces in Yuri’s vast arsenal. He expects an outburst of potentially volcanic proportions, but there’s only a snort of frustration, a muttered _typical._ Since he seems like he might have a slightly better understanding of the situation, Yuuri chances a question. 

“Do you know why we’re taking lessons together?”

He receives the anticipated frown in response, but this time Yuri appears more frustrated than angry. 

“No,” he admits, turning away. “I mean, I know why _I’m_ taking lessons, but I thought…

Yuuri nods. “I thought it’d be alone.” 

“Yeah.” He turns back around to glower at the older student again. “So you’d better not mess this up for me.” 

And before Yuuri can answer, Minako has arrived. 

“Both here early, I see.” She drops her bag to the floor, pulling out her phone and plugging it in to the stereo system. “Ready to begin?”

Yuri raises his chin, a glint of what could be pride in his eyes, pointe shoes already laced. With a start Yuuri realizes he doesn’t own a pair anymore. 

“Um…”

“Here.” Minako tosses the shoes at him. “They’re secondhand, but it was hard to find the right size. You’ll be needing new ones in a month or so once these get worn through. I’ll ask Lilia if we can use some of the company’s replacement budget for both of you.” 

She puts some music on and guides them through a warm-up—not a process Yuuri has needed help with in a long while, but he doesn’t complain. This training will require a return to the basics, for a time, but he doesn’t believe the headmistress would have assigned him to it without reason. 

Pointe is arduous work. He’s forgotten, in the several years since his last lesson, just how difficult it can be, the way it leaves his feet with a different sort of ache than usual. But he likes it, this sensation of lightness, the way it makes him feel sylph-like and ethereal. He is not as flexible as Yuri, not as petite of stature, but he is determined to make his best effort, to not be embarrassed here. When they break two hours later, flushed and panting, a prickle of triumph surges up inside him. 

“You’re going to have to do better than that if you want to keep up,” Yuri tells him, but for the moment Yuuri is simply glad that he managed to get through it all. 

He’s exhausted on the walk back to his dorm. Too exhausted, because he isn’t really paying attention to anything but stumbling his way forward and he nearly careens into a fellow pedestrian for the second time in two days. He looks up, prepared to apologize, into Victor Nikiforov’s eyes. The words die in his throat. 

“And where are you off to?” 

There’s something teasing playing at the corner of his lips. 

“To sleep,” Yuuri says, and even that small phrase is a labor. “I’m coming from pointe lessons.”

“That’s quite the endeavor,” says Victor. “Have you had dinner? You must be starved.”

“I was going to eat with Phichit, but…

He yawns. Victor prods his shoulder gently. 

“Eat first. Then sleep. You’ll feel better after.” 

Yuuri is too tired to argue. He wonders if he should invite Victor to accompany him, if that would be the polite thing to do, but he wonders also if it would be too strange. This conversation has already sapped most of what mental strength he has remaining; he doubts he can limp his way through an entire meal’s worth of awkward small talk. 

“I will,” he says, and doesn’t add anything else. They stand there for a few uncomfortable seconds, neither moving to leave.

“Um,” he says, “bye.”

“I’ll see you in pas de deux tomorrow, Yuuri.”

And maybe it’s just that Moscow is colder than he’s used to at this time of year, but when he hears the way Victor trills his name Yuuri shivers. He continues down the path before he can do anything else he’ll regret in the morning. 

It is going to be a difficult year, he thinks. He might even enjoy it.


	2. Chapter 2

“If we’re going to be pas de deux partners,” says Victor, “I think we should get to know each other better outside of class, don’t you?”

It’s a Saturday morning, and Yuuri is blinking blearily up at the already-dressed-and-put-together figure standing outside his door. He’s not sure if it’s the sun or Victor’s smile that hurts his eyes.

“It’s…” He squints at the clock, trying to make out the numbers without his glasses. “…Six in the morning.”

“The city is beautiful this early,” says Victor, by way of explanation, and holds out his hand.

Fifteen minutes later Yuuri is dressed in whatever was at the top of his drawers, hat thrown hastily over his bedhead, trailing behind Victor out into the cool grey air. He doesn’t know if there’s a point in asking where they’re going.

Their destination, it turns out, is a market, a collection of food-laden stalls and cluttered tables with fabric canopies flapping overhead. Victor browses for a while, pointing out to Yuuri which items are the best, which toys are real antiques, which produce is not as fresh as the hawker claims.

He orders breakfast for them in Russian, handing Yuuri a napkin-wrapped pastry with a _you should try this_ and another smile. He refuses to let his companion pay him back.

“It’s a gift of welcome,” he says.

They find their way to a small park and sit together on a bench to eat, watching as the city wakes up.

“In the morning,” says Victor, “I always miss the sound of the gulls in St. Petersburg. By now I’ve spent more of my life here than there, and I’m not even sure if I can call it a home anymore, but that’s one thing I’ll never forget.”

Yuuri takes a bite of his breakfast.

“There’s gulls back in Hasetsu,” he says. “Not having the ocean nearby is…strange, I guess.”

“Have you ever been away from home before?”

“Not like this.”

Yuuri isn’t really sure why he’s talking to Victor—or, more accurately, why Victor is talking to _him_. They might be partners in class, but outside the halls of the Academy, he can’t think of anything they might have in common. Yuuri is only the shy new transfer student from Japan, and Victor is…Victor.

“I am interested in you, Yuuri,” Victor says, as though he’s been reading his companion’s thoughts.

Yuuri nearly chokes on his pastry. “Wh—What you mean?”

“I mean I would like to learn more about you. If you’ll let me.”

It is not an adequate answer to his question, but Yuuri finds himself nodding hesitantly. Victor stretches out a hand, brushes it briefly, tenderly, against his cheek. For a moment something passes over his face—a kind of longing, Yuuri would call it, but that doesn’t seem right.

“How are your pointe classes going?”

His shift in tone is abrupt, and suddenly he’s the academy’s star pupil again.

“Slowly,” says Yuuri, “but I’m managing.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Lilia’s shared some of her choreography for the upcoming weeks with me. It’s intense.”

Yuuri can’t help but notice the casual way he says that, _Lilia’s shared with me_ , as if the two of them are on equal footing. He doesn’t comment on it, opting for a noncommittal hum instead. He lets Victor talk a while longer, about his summer, his other classes, his ideas for his senior thesis project. Yuuri listens with what he hopes Victor won’t perceive as too much fascination.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, partway through recounting another tale of his first-year exploits. “I’m sure I’ve bored you to pieces.”

“No!” says Yuuri, too quickly. He blushes. “I—I mean…I like to hear you speak.”

He winces almost as soon as the words have left his mouth, but thankfully Victor refrains from teasing him about it.

“But now it’s your turn.”

“To talk?”

Victor nods. “I can’t ask you to tell me everything, but I would be honored if you told me something.”

Yuuri glances down at the grass at his feet. “There’s nothing really to tell. Nothing interesting, anyway.”

_Not like you_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say it. He feels a hand on his chin, looks up into Victor’s eyes.

“I find I have a hard time believing that.”

Yuuri swallows. “Perhaps you should narrow it down for me.”

“Okay.” Victor leans back, putting a finger to his lips in thought. “What’s your favorite food?”

“Pork cutlet bowls,” says Yuuri, without having to hesitate. “We call them katsudon. I used to only be allowed to eat them after a closing performance, but on my hiatus I…well. That didn’t happen.”

“I think I would very much like to try one someday.”

“Maybe when the semester’s over and we come out on top of the class for pas de deux.”

Victor surprises him by throwing back his head and laughing. Yuuri can’t resist a small smile himself.

“Alright,” says Victor, “next question. Have you ever had a lover?”

Yuuri is grateful he’s finished his breakfast, because if he’d still been eating he would have spat out the entire mouthful all over Victor’s (rather expensive looking) jacket in shock.

“ _What_?”

“You know. Boyfriend, girlfriend, friend who doesn’t conform to our conceptions of binary gender.”

“I _know_ what a lover is, I just…” _It’s a big leap from favorite food to personal sexual history._

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Yuuri, we’re both adults.”

“Victor, I—

“Very well. If you won’t tell me, then I shall have to tell you. I suppose I should begin with—

“ _No._ ” Yuuri is fully aware that his face is bright red, and fully determined to ignore it. “Don’t begin with anything. Please.”

Victor considers him a moment.

“Okay,” he says, and his voice is gentle.

“I’m sorry,” says Yuuri.

“Don’t be. I suppose after all we are almost strangers.”

“I suppose so.”

It’s odd, because the thought gives Yuuri an unpleasant pang in the pit of his stomach.

“But we don’t have to be.”

The offer escapes his mouth before he has the chance to take it back. He waits for Victor to laugh at him, to look at him pityingly, to get up and leave, to do anything but accept Yuuri’s awkward proposal of friendship with an outstretched hand.

“To not being strangers, then.”

It’s an unusual day.

After that, Yuuri slowly grows used to life at the Academy. And it _is_ different from life before, he was right about that, but even this routine becomes familiar to him after a few weeks, and the city, foreign and expansive as it is, starts to feel a little more comfortable.

It helps that Victor has decided to show up outside his door every Saturday morning, grabbing him by the hand and carting him off to another corner food vendor or secluded park or old house containing some obscure Russian history museum with informational brochures that Yuuri never understands, but the photographs are interesting. Once he asks how Victor finds all these places—it’s not like either of them has much in the way of free time—and Victor gives a small, cryptic smile, and asks if he’d like to try the best solyanka in the city.

Phichit is starting to notice his frequent absences. He notices, too, that Victor is the cause of them.

“Yuuri,” he says one day after his roommate walks in with a bouquet of fresh-cut daisies. There’s a curious lilt in his voice, like he’s trying to sound casual but falling just short. “Is there something you want to tell me about you and a certain fifth-year dance prodigy whose name starts with ‘V’ and rhymes with ‘ictor’?”

“That’s oddly specific.” Yuuri sets the flowers gently on his bedside table. He’ll have to find something to put them in later, he thinks. “Pity I don’t know anyone named ‘Vlictor’, isn’t it?”

Phichit swats him on the shoulder good-naturedly. “It’s no fun when I tease you if you tease me back.”

“What a shame.”

“Don’t think I don’t notice you two sneaking off every weekend. One of these days I’ll even get a picture to prove it.”

“Good luck with that,” Yuuri says.

When he’s not out with Victor on another one of their excursions, he’s practicing. When he’s not practicing, he’s asleep. For the rare few moments when he’s not doing any of those things, he usually takes the time to breathe and force himself to believe that all of this is really happening. Even now, a month into his stay at the Academy, it feels surreal.

The amount of work he has, however, is only too real, and each passing day is a stronger reminder of it. Whether or not he’s actually behind, he certainly feels it. He wonders if his status as a transfer student is to blame. The Academy is divided into two schools, Lower and Upper, though it is not necessary to attend the former to be admitted to the later. Dancers ten years of age and above are permitted to apply to the Lower School, where they complete five years of ballet training interspersed with the required academic classes. At fifteen, in compliance with Russia’s legal leaving age for secondary institutions, applicants are accepted into the Upper School, which casts aside academics in favor of intensive practical instruction. Around half choose to follow the three-year program, graduating at eighteen into companies around Moscow, but some stay on for the extra two. This coursework is the most rigorous of all, and Yuuri is drowning in it.

Even though academics are not a focus of the Upper School, they have not been discarded completely. In order to earn his degree, Yuuri must complete several theory classes, including his current general history of dance. And it wouldn’t be so bad, because he’s always done reasonably well in this sort of subject, but between the amount of time spent in class and his extra pointe lessons, he has a hard time squeezing in an essay a week about famous movements and figures from previous centuries.

“Cheer up,” Phichit tells him, when he comes in one evening to find his roommate lying face-first in a pile of papers. “I’ve just been to see Celestino, and he says he’s giving us an extension. We’re going sightseeing.”

Yuuri tries to protest weakly, but his research-addled brain is no match for Phichit’s iron will.

“Haven’t you already seen all the sights in this city?”

“Maybe,” says Phichit, “but you haven’t. It’s a Friday night, Yuuri. You can’t stay cooped up in the dormitory all by yourself.”

_Oh yes I can_ , he thinks, but he allows himself to be dragged out the door. They are joined in their venture by Leo and Guang-Hong, who keep pestering Phichit with suggestions.

“I think we should go to Red Square,” says Leo. “I liked it when we were there last time, the view of the cathedral is beautiful.”

“There’s too many people at Red Square,” says Guang-Hong. “I want to see Alexander Garden.”

“At this time of night?”

“It’s not _that_ late. And anyway, the park will be lit up.”

“Since this is for Yuuri’s benefit,” says Phichit, interrupting, “I think we should let him decide.”

Leo and Guang-Hong turn to him, each not-so-subtly fixing him with a pleading expression.

“Um,” says Yuuri, “I really don’t think—

“ _Choose_.” Phichit folds his arms, raising his eyebrows. “Well?”

“Er…the garden sounds kind of nice?”

Guang-Hong pumps a fist in the air victoriously, while Leo mock-pouts. “This is the height of iniquity.”

Guang-Hong mumbles something that sounds like _drama queen_ under his breath and Leo kicks his shin. He darts away before his friend can retaliate, and soon enough he and Guang-Hong are chasing each other along the path ahead.

“Oh to be young,” says Phichit, shaking his head.

It really isn’t late, and although the sun has set, the street lamps cast a warm glow over the surrounding darkness. Alexander Garden isn’t very busy, giving Leo and Guang-Hong the freedom to continue their game while Phichit and Yuuri stand in front of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, watching the Eternal Flame flicker and burn. Beyond that, the Kremlin Wall looms, red brick façade blocking the bottoms of the buildings behind it from view.

Yuuri feels a buzz in his pocket, and pulls out his phone to find a text from Victor.

_You busy tonight?_

He bites his lip, trying to keep from smiling, but doesn’t quite succeed. Fortunately Phichit has fled the scene and is currently in hot pursuit of Leo and Guang-Hong, phone arm outstretched, preoccupied with documenting their antics. Yuuri snaps a picture of his companions terrorizing the park and sends it to Victor.

_Not as busy as they are._

The reply bubble pops up, and Yuuri shoves the device back in his jeans before he can stress about it. He holds out for two whole minutes after Victor’s next message comes through, but can’t help caving to the temptation.

_The Garden is beautiful this time of year. Too far from me, though :(_

Yuuri’s heart speeds up involuntarily. He tries to will his cheeks to stop burning.

_Where are you?_

_Bar. Wanna join?_

_Yes_ , Yuuri thinks, ashamed of how quickly the answer flies to mind. He looks back out at the park. Leo has tackled Phichit and the two of them are locked in some sort of combat while Guang-Hong takes pictures from the sidelines. They wouldn’t notice if he slipped away, he could text Phichit later and apologize, promise to make it up to him some other time.

“Yuuri! Come help!”

But he can’t bail on his friends. And anyway, when is the next time Phichit will allow himself to be caught in a compromising position? He prefers to be the one behind the camera. Yuuri types out a brief reply to Victor— _I can’t tonight_ —before swallowing any disappointment he pretends he doesn’t feel and striding to his roommate’s rescue.

He gets dragged into the fight, and soon enough it’s him and Phichit versus Leo and Guang-Hong, throwing fistfuls of fallen leaves at each other and running like mad. They only stop when someone yells at them from the pavement to pipe down (in Russian, of course, but the meaning is clear), and it’s now late enough that they decide it would be best to comply. Leo and Phichit complain about people having no senses of humor on the trek back, while Guang-Hong smiles quietly. Yuuri is trying not to think about the fact that his phone hasn’t vibrated once in the hour that has passed since his last message to Victor.

Just as he’s wondering if he should try sending something else, an apology, maybe—or would double texting seem too clingy?—his screen lights up.

The reply is only two words long, _next time_ , but his smile is back and Phichit sees.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Sure it is.”

But Phichit doesn’t press the matter further, just smirks a little at him and keeps walking.

As the city becomes more familiar to Yuuri, so does the Academy’s position within it. Madame Baranovskaya is right. This is not Vaganova. There is a certain kind of desperation, he thinks, born of that fact. There’s a girl in one of his classes who twists her ankle on a turn and takes a bad fall. They have to carry her out on a stretcher. The next day she’s back at the barre, leg wrapped, pointe shoes laced, and if it means in ten years she’ll never walk again no one mentions it.

“This is why I tell you to be careful,” says Minako, shaking her head, at his next lesson. “I don’t like the thought that it could be you next time. What would your parents say to me?”

Yuuri doesn’t answer that; even if he knows the risks of his profession, his family has never quite been able to understand. He is not sure who they would blame.

The other Yuri isn’t in attendance—he’s been given a different task, Minako informs him, as if to reassure him that the younger boy isn’t skipping out on them, as if that’s even a possibility.

“How long has it been since I gave you a solo lesson?” she asks, and he shrugs.

“Enough years to make me feel old.”

She lets out a laugh at that. “If you’re old, what does that make me?”

Practice goes late, and it’s long past dark by the time he gets back to the dorm. Phichit is already asleep, and Yuuri closes the door quietly on his way in, careful not to wake him. He feels restless, even after the hours of work he put in at the studio, and he has the sinking feeling it’s going to be another sleepless night. He pulls out his phone to distract himself, and without really thinking about it finds himself typing Victor’s name into the search bar. He clicks on the first video that comes up— _Moscow International Ballet Academy Exhibition Gala, feat. Victor Nikiforov as Apollo._ It’s dated for what must have been the end of Victor’s third year.

The ballet isn’t one he’s familiar with, though he’s definitely heard the name before. It’s Balanchine, he thinks, an odd choice for a Russian academy. Victor stands alone at the center of a dark stage, wearing nothing but a white toga draped casually over one shoulder, belted around the middle. His silvery hair stretches down past his waist, left long rather than tied out of the way, a definite breach in procedure.

The thing about variations for male dancers is that they’re generally less dynamic than the women’s solos, a chance for shows of strength over musicality. But watching Victor now, even through such a tiny screen, Yuuri doesn’t get that impression.

It’s old choreography, of course, but from Victor’s approach—impossible lightness, grace, a kind of innocence that takes Yuuri by surprise—the opposite effect is given. His movements are transfixingly raw, carrying a sort of honesty Yuuri isn’t sure he’s been able to achieve on or off the stage. He feels a bit faint halfway through and realizes he’s holding his breath.

It should be intimidating that this is what he’ll have to deal with every day for the next three months. It _is_ intimidating, in more ways than Yuuri is able to articulate. And there’s something else, too, behind that. A spark flares up inside him, the vestige of some part of himself he thought long buried now resurfacing to—what, haunt him? And then he realizes.

_I want to dance with him_ , Yuuri thinks.

He lowers the phone to his bedside table, rolls over, tries to quiet his racing mind.

* * *

 Yuri is complaining to her, as usual.

Mila takes another sip of her coffee, letting her eyes wander to the cars passing outside the window, the reflections their headlights cast on the wet streets in the rain. She hasn’t really been paying attention to the fullness of the rant—it’s seldom worth it, and today seems to be no exception. As far as she can gather he’s upset about being paired with a moody third-year from Kazakhstan for pas de deux.

“Madame Baranovskaya is breaking protocol just by letting you into that class,” she points out. “Shouldn’t you be grateful for that?”

He glares at her and launches into a new tirade about “stupid rules” and “why can’t I just take all my classes at the upper level.” Mila tunes him out again; he’ll wear himself out eventually, and perhaps then they can begin to have a real conversation.

As she waits, she spots a familiar figure through the glass. Sara Crispino is striding down the sidewalk, her brother close on her heels, holding out an umbrella for the both of them. He looks like he’s lecturing her about something. This isn’t unusual; whenever Mila sees him it’s with his twin, chastising her, glowering at the rest of the world. He falls nicely into the moody Italian stereotype, but his sister is something else entirely. Mila watches her eyes light up as she catches sight of something in a shop display across the street, tugging Mickey along after her by the hand.

“ _Hey_.”

Yuri kicks her underneath the table, hard. She glances back to him. He’s scowling.

“Are you paying attention or not?”

“Of course,” she says, and he rolls his eyes.

“No one understands my suffering.”

“Yuri,” she says, “it’s going to be _fine_.”

His shoulders droop slightly, and he lets out a sigh.

“The third-year coursework is tough,” he admits. “I just hope Otabek knows what he’s doing.”

“He’s made it this far, hasn’t he?” Mila pauses. “And so have you.”

He gives the reassurance no acknowledgement, but Mila thinks his face softens, just a little.

“What were you gawking at just now?” he asks.

“It was nothing,” she says quickly. “Only the rain.”

“You’re turning into Georgi.”

“Oh God, never that.”

“You _are_.”

“Please,” she says, “I already hear enough about his lovesick heart from Anya, don’t you start on me too.”

“It’s still not as bad as having Victor for a roommate,” says Yuri. “I don’t understand why they paired a second-year and a fifth-year together.”

“It’s a mentorship thing. He’s an _inspiration_.”

“He’s a pain in the ass.”

“Look on the bright side,” says Mila. “You could be rooming with JJ. Or Christophe.”

“That’s a pretty low bar,” Yuri mutters.

But he can’t be too annoyed with her, because he pays for his own coffee.

Mila doesn’t remember how long they’ve been doing this, or when it started. Yuri has never called her a friend, not in so many words, but they’ve danced together for years now and that has to make them something more than acquaintances. It’s an unspoken agreement between them, that they’ll meet at this café on a morning they don’t have class, whenever venting their frustrations through ballet doesn’t feel quite sufficient. One of them will text the other with a time, and that’s all that needs to be said. Yuri always has extra steam to blow off, and Mila enjoys the view from their usual table in the corner.

They walk back to the dormitories together, then go their separate ways. Mila thinks she should squeeze in some extra practice before the afternoon and grabs her bag to head for the studio. Amongst Yuri’s various grievances was a monologue on his pointe lessons, and she hates to admit it, but she’s unwilling to get beat out by someone in the grade below her. She has to keep at least _some_ of her dignity in tact.

She’s been paired with Emil for pas de deux this semester, and he’s nice enough but he lacks an appropriate level of focus, and when it comes down to it she knows she can dance rings around him. She should have asked Yuri to be her partner—he’s a ballerina at heart, it suits him better than the stoic role of the traditional male dancer, and she’s been able to deadlift him since she was fifteen—but she isn’t confident she’d be able to make it through an entire class without throwing something at him. He’d probably say the same.

She begins her stretches, putting on her favorite playlist of English rock bands screaming into the microphone. It’s calming, in a way, letting the half-understood words wash over her without having to pay much attention to their lyrics. Better than the classical stuff she usually has to dance to.

“You should’ve gone into modern,” Yuri tells her sometimes, but there is not such a big market for modern, not here, anyway, and it is not as well respected. And Mila likes ballet, even if it still sometimes seems a bit too stuck in the past.

It takes her a few moments after finishing her warm up to decide what she’d like to work on. She doesn’t feel like texting Emil to ask if he wants to go over what they learned last class, and she doesn’t really feel like running drills either. She takes her place at the center of the studio floor, and at the start of the next song she begins to dance.

It’s been a while since she improvised just for the fun of it. _I should do this more often_ , she thinks, a heady sort of feeling washing over her as she moves. Glissade, then grand jeté, attitude croisée. Balancé en tournant, and after, pas de valse.

She’s so enraptured that at first she doesn’t notice the figure standing in the open doorway. When she does, in the middle of a pirouette, she loses her balance and goes crashing to the floor.

“Oh God, Mila!”

Sara Crispino rushes over to her, crouching by her side. “Um. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Mila stands, wincing. “Pride’s a little bruised.”

“I’ll forget I saw anything.”

They stand opposite one another awkwardly.

“Um,” says Mila. “Is there a reason you’re here?”

“Sorry,” says Sara. “The other practice rooms were taken. Do you mind if I—

“No, no.” Mila shakes her head vigorously. “Uh. Go ahead.”

“Thanks.” Sara flashes a smile at her, quick and bright, depositing her gear at the other end of the room, pulling out her pointe shoes.

“Do you want me to—should I, um…” Mila gestures vaguely at the sound system, which is still blaring the foreign music that suddenly seems aggressively loud in the otherwise unnaturally quiet room.

“Oh,” says Sara, “I don’t mind.”

“Right.” Mila shifts awkwardly. “Well…I’ll turn it off anyway.”

She does, hesitating as she’s about to stuff her phone back in her bag. “Is there anything you’d like to listen to?”

“In that case…”

And then Sara’s right behind her, close enough that Mila can feel her breath on her neck. _She’s shorter than me_ , she thinks. _Just slightly._

“May I?”

Mila nods, and Sara plucks the phone from her fingers, browsing for options.

“How do you feel about arie?”

“What?”

Sara clicks play, and some Italian opera piece comes on, high and slow and vaguely mournful. It’s not what Mila’s used to, but…

“I can take it.”

The grin Sara gives her in response more than makes up for her questionable song choice.

“Good,” she says.

They return to their separate sides of the room, preparing to practice as normal. It’s far from the first time Mila has shared the studio with someone outside of class, far enough that there’s certainly no reason for her to be self-conscious, but she can’t help feeling the pull of Sara’s presence only a few meters away. She finds herself glancing over every few minutes, only to see the other girl working with her brow furrowed, deep in concentration. Sometimes she looks up, and Mila’s eyes skirt quickly away again.

_Screw your head on straight, Babicheva._ There’s no point in dancing today if she isn’t going to take it seriously, but she isn’t going to admit defeat either. She raises her chin just slightly, determined to ignore everything around her.

It works for about thirty seconds, and then Sara opens her mouth.

“Can I ask you to help me with something?”

Mila jolts, catching herself just before she trips over her own footwork. “Of course.”

Sara walks over to her, frowning a little to herself.

“It’s only…” She pauses, considering her phrasing. “I hear you’re one of the best dancers in your class, and I’m…I’ve been having some trouble.”

“I’m sorry,” says Mila, “I’m still stuck on the ‘best dancer in your class’ bit.”

Sara raises an eyebrow. “Would you like me to rescind the compliment?”

“No,” she says quickly. “I’ll help you.”

And Sara smiles again, and Mila flushes. _One of the best dancers in my class_ , she thinks. And that’s coming from Sara Crispino.

“What exactly are you having trouble with?”

“It’s my form,” she says, “when I’m en pointe. Madame Baranovskaya says it needs improvement, and that as a fourth-year I ought to already be past this sort of negligence.”

“That sounds like her.”

“The Russian dancers are always best when it comes to form, and I thought…I thought maybe you could give me some corrections.”

“Ah,” says Mila, “but you forget who you’re asking. I’m afraid Madame Baranovskaya has given me similar complaints.”

“You looked just fine earlier.”

Mila’s face goes red again, and Sara actually _smirks_ at her.

“What? You think I didn’t notice?” She bends down to adjust the lacing on one of her shoes. “You trained at the Lower School, right? That gives you an edge, at least over me.”

“I guess.” Mila takes a deep breath.

“Okay,” she says, “I’ll do it. Just don’t blame me if it isn’t the kind of help you want.”

“Deal accepted.” Sara stands upright again, stretching out a hand for Mila to take, and they shake on it.

“Uh,” says Mila. “Can you—just show me some of the positions that are causing you problems, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Works for me.”

Sara moves into a simple arabesque, holding the pose so Mila can inspect her. Her form really isn’t all that bad, but _almost_ is never good enough, not for anyone looking to become a professional, and Mila won’t be doing her any favors by sparing her feelings.

“Your shoulders are out of alignment,” she says. “May I?”

Sara nods, and Mila moves a hand to the base of her spine, prompting her gently to turn just slightly so that the curve of her back is smoother. Then she adjusts Sara’s shoulders so that they’re held square in the line of direction. Her arms, at least, are straight, extended delicately, thrumming with energy in a way that looks effortless.

“Alright,” Mila says, and her voice cracks a little. Sara has the grace not to comment on it. “Now try en tournant.”

Sara turns in a slow circle, carefully and without dropping the precision of her posture.

“It hurts more this way,” she says. “I must be doing it right.”

Mila has her dance some more, some cabrioles and pirouettes piquées, a demonstration of port de bras (the carriage of the arms, but Sara’s good at that, and Mila watches her movements with what she hopes is envy). Afterwards they pack up their belongings together, and Sara pauses.

“Is it strange of me to tell you I enjoyed this?”

“If it is,” says Mila, “then I’m strange too.”

Sara finishes unlacing her shoes, stowing them back in her bag, and stands. “Maybe we could do it again sometime.”

Mila swallows. “I think I’d like that.”

“Then…next week? The same time?”

“I’ll be here.”

“I’ll be here too.”

She waves a quick farewell from the doorway, and Mila manages to return the gesture. Then she lays back on the marley, wondering if it’s possible to die of exposure to someone else’s smile.


	3. Chapter 3

Otabek Altin is quite probably more trouble than he’s worth.

They’ve been practicing their pas de deux together for more than three hours now, and Yuri’s partner has hardly spoken a word. Not that he really cares—he came here to dance, and conversation like most things doesn’t even register on his priority list. But as time goes on, he’s starting to find the silence a little unnerving. Perhaps it’s only the contrast, felt deep after years of Victor’s incessant prattle and Mila’s teasing. The reprieve should come as a relief.

Instead, he’s growing steadily more frustrated, until at length Otabek breaks away from him, right as he’s stepping into an arabesque. His working leg nearly hits his partner in the face.

“What was that for?” Yuri growls, dropping out of the pose, and Otabek considers him quizzically.

“You seem tense.”

 _No shit_ , Yuri wants to say, but he bites his tongue.

“It doesn’t matter,” he snaps instead. “We should get back to work.”

Otabek puts a hand out to stop him, hovering half-extended in the space between them.

“No,” he says.

Yuri folds his arms. “You really want to risk getting the Bear on our asses? We’re supposed to have this choreography perfect by Friday.”

“We should take a break,” says Otabek.

Yuri wants to argue with him further, but he senses the boy’s will is immovable. He sighs.

“Alright. But you’re signing your own death warrant.”

“I’m dead either way, right?” If Yuri didn’t know better, he would swear there’s a teasing note in Otabek’s voice. “You’ve looked like you wanted to murder me since we started.”

Yuri opens his mouth to retort, then closes it.

“…maybe,” he mutters, and Otabek gives his shoulder a nudge.

“So are you going to tell me the reason why?”

“This dance is stupid.”

It isn’t what he meant to say, and it isn’t really what he wanted to say, either. He thinks the statement makes him sound like a child. Even so, it’s true.

Otabek merely raises an eyebrow.

“What I mean,” says Yuri, cheeks flushed for some unfathomable reason, “is that it’s not working. We’re getting all the steps, but…

“There’s no cohesion.” Otabek nods slowly. “Perhaps that is the point?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve been a loner since I came here,” says Otabek, “and you’re…

He trails off, uncertain, but Yuri waves a hand.

“I’m _difficult_ , I know. So…what, you think Baranovskaya paired us together because of our winning personalities?”

“It’s a possibility.”

Yuri doesn’t bother asking why on _earth_ she would do a thing like that. With Madame Baranovskaya, it’s best never to ask that sort of question.

“And how do you suggest we find our _cohesion_?” He tries for mocking but falls somewhat short, the slightest bit curious in spite of himself. Otabek remains as placid as ever.

“If Madame Baranovskaya thinks us incapable of working together,” he says, “I expect we’ll have to prove her wrong.”

It’s one of a number of the more dangerous things he could have proposed. Yuri can never resist this sort of challenge, the push to defy someone else’s expectations, and he suspects Otabek knows this only too well. He takes the bait anyway.

“Fine,” he says. “We’re going to have the best damn program in the class.”

And just for a moment, he thinks he catches something almost like a smile on the other boy’s face, gone as quickly as it appeared.

“Good,” Otabek says, and nothing else.

When they finally break for real the evening sun has dipped low in the sky, and Yuri is famished.

“I’m getting dinner,” he announces, and takes off, Otabek wordlessly falling into place beside him.

He means to head directly to the dining hall—he’s on a meal plan, and even if the food is usually somewhat south of flavorful why waste the money?—but out of the corner of his eye he sees Otabek glance across the street to a small café, the same one he frequents with Mila on occasion, and without really thinking about it that’s where he turns. They have an awkward exchange when Otabek tries to hold the door for him while Yuri steps aside, waiting for Otabek to go first, and they both turn away, embarrassed, before squeezing through together. Neither of them mentions it, and Yuri marches over to a table near the back, dropping to a seat.

They don’t speak while they peruse the menu, and the silence should be weird, _is_ a little weird, maybe, but it doesn’t feel wrong.

It takes them until they’re halfway through their meal to start up something that resembles a conversation. Otabek has ordered lamb shashlyk and black tea, which he sips out of the mug with unusual delicacy, his thick, strong fingers wrapped around its base. He wears a pair of well-worn black fingerless gloves, and for some odd reason Yuri finds himself fascinated by them.

“You’re staring,” says Otabek, and Yuri’s face flushes.

“How’s the food?” he asks.

“It’s been a while since I had a kebab that wasn’t from a street vendor. They’re everywhere in Almaty.”

“Oh?”

“Sometimes when I’m at home on the weekend, when the tourists aren’t too bad, I’ll visit the Green Market for manti or pilaf, or to pick up some fresh fruit.”

“I never have time to go to the markets here,” says Yuri. Victor goes, sometimes, but Yuri still isn’t sure how he manages it, not around everything else he does.

“I seldom have the time either.” Otabek pauses a moment. “I could go with you, if you’d like.”

“What?”

“To the market.”

Yuri ought to laugh in his face, but he thinks instead of Saturday mornings with his grandfather, _look, Yuratchka, cabbage for our pirozhki, I’ll show you how to make my recipe this time_.

“I think I would like that,” Yuri says.

Again that not-smile flashes briefly across Otabek’s face, and something in his demeanor softens.

“Do you really think we’ll be able to pull this off?”

“There is no doubt in my mind,” says Otabek, without hesitation, and something warm settles itself in Yuri’s stomach.

“Madame Baranovskaya says they already have all the gala slots in place. The showing on Friday could help secure us a good one.”

“Last year,” says Otabek, “I danced twice, but only in the background. I would like to do better this time.”

“I was demi-soloist for a piece in the second act,” says Yuri, and thinks, _it’s not enough._ Otabek seems to understand.

“We’ll manage,” he says, with a confidence Yuri isn’t sure either of them actually feels.

He looks down at his plate and realizes his food has all but vanished. He doesn’t remember eating it all—the conversation must have had him more preoccupied than he thought. Otabek seems to be finished too. They pay for their meals and make their way back onto the pavement, lingering beneath the streetlight out front.

“That…wasn’t horrible.”

“I’m honored,” says Otabek, his sarcasm unimpeded by his customary stoicism.

Yuri jams his hands into his pockets. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Mm.” Otabek is quiet a moment, and he looks serious again. “Yuri? Are we…friends, now?”

He tilts his head, considering the question. “I suppose we are. If you want us to be.”

“I’m not opposed to the idea.”

Yuri figures it’s as close to a _yes_ as he’ll get. They keep walking, but stop when they reach the corner, Otabek turning to continue down the block.

“Hey, Otabek. The dorms are this way.”

He shifts uncomfortably, eyes on the pavement. “I know. I don’t live at the dormitories.”

Yuri frowns. “I thought it was required.”

“I believe ‘ _strongly advised_ ’ were the exacts words the headmistress used.”

“So why do you get to be the exception?”

“Living off-campus is…cheaper, among other things.” He doesn’t elaborate.

“I see,” says Yuri, although he doesn’t.

“But I can walk you back.”

Yuri casts a pointed look at the cluster of Academy buildings just across the street, and he thinks Otabek flushes, just a little.

“Or not.”

“I don’t mind,” says Yuri, realizing that it’s true. This day keeps getting stranger.

“Okay.”

They’re silent during the few minutes the journey takes them. It’s like the way things were back at the restaurant, and before that, while they were rehearsing, but already the awkwardness is fading from the spaces between their verbal interactions, replaced by something softer, warm like the sensation Yuri had earlier.

This friendship thing is weird, he thinks.

“I guess I’ll see you in class.”

“Yeah.” Yuri moves to open his door, and stops. “Otabek, wait.”

Otabek turns to him.

“We should exchange numbers. So we can rehearse and stuff.”

The other boy doesn’t answer right away, and Yuri almost holds his breath before he comes to his senses.

“Fine by me.”

A wave of relief washes over him, followed by irritation that his brain has the audacity to make him _relieved_ in the first place. He shoves his phone at Otabek.

“Put your contact info in there and I’ll text you later.”

Otabek obeys, then straightens and hands the phone back to him. He sticks it back in his pocket.

“So…see you around.”

“Mm.” Otabek nods, then heads back in the opposite direction. Yuri watches him go.

“Can’t even say a proper goodbye,” he mutters, and pushes the door open.

Victor is in, wearing that shit-eating grin he gets when he thinks he’s done something clever or just after he’s spent time with that idiot Katsuki. Yuri’s temper instantly sours.

“Yu _ra_.”

Fan-fucking-tastic. He’s in one of _those_ moods. Yuri scowls at him, hoping it’ll keep him from talking more, but of course that never works with Victor.

“Was that a smile I saw on your face just now?”

Yuri lets out a growl of frustration and shoves past him to throw himself on his bed. Victor laughs.

“And who was that at the door with you? Not Otabek Altin, surely.”

“None of your damn business,” Yuri spits.

Victor just shakes his head and makes a face like he knows something significant. Yuri chucks a pillow at him and rolls over, cradling his phone protectively between his hands so Victor can’t see. He finds Otabek’s name and hesitates over the message bubble. Suddenly he’s not quite sure what to say, or if it’s too soon to say anything at all.

 _This is stupid_ , he thinks. He fires off a message and hits send before he can waste any more time deliberating.

_Call that a goodbye?_

He waits a few minutes before he gets a response.

_I was unaware there was a protocol for such things._

Yuri snorts. _Asshole._ Otabek doesn’t reply to that, but Yuri’s already exhausted most of his reserves for socializing today anyway. He puts on one of the playlists Mila made for him, jamming on his headphones before Victor can try and talk to him again.

 

* * *

 “So what’s his name?”

It’s a Saturday afternoon in early October. Phichit is out, and Yuuri’s only just come in after a walk with Victor in one of the nearby parks. The leaves are changing in earnest now, and in the morning sun they looked so striking Yuuri couldn’t resist snapping a few pictures.

“Who?”

His sister, Mari, cuts him a sharp look that loses nothing over video call.

“The guy on your timeline,” she says. “Or is befriending gorgeous strangers a habit you’ve picked up since being in Russia?”

Yuuri ducks his head. Apparently doing the normal thing and occasionally posting pictures of him and his friends online without being interrogated is too much to ask for.

“He’s my teaching assistant in pas de deux. We’re dancing together this semester.”

“He’s _cute_.”

“Really,” says Yuuri, deadpan. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“You still haven’t told me what his name is.”

“Victor Nikiforov. The local legend, apparently.”

“More than just local.” Mari tears her eyes away from the computer screen to scroll through the results on her phone. “Did you know he toured internationally?”

“I didn’t.” Yuuri frowns. “Does it say when?”

“Two years ago. He was eighteen at the time.”

Two years places him sometime after graduating from his third year. _If he was able to find a job so quickly, why come back?_

“He doesn’t seem to have done much since then.”

“No,” says Yuuri, “he’s a student. He’s in his last year.”

“Then he’s not much older than you.”

Yuuri pretends he doesn’t notice the knowing tone in his sister’s voice.

“I should go. I have an essay due Monday on ballet’s early origins in the Italian Renaissance.”

Mari makes a face. “Have fun, I guess.”

“I’ll try.”

“Hey, Yuuri. You’re flying back for winter break, right? Mom and Dad claim the onsen isn’t the same without you.”

“Tell them I already booked a ticket.”

“Good. They can stop nagging me about it.” She offers him one of her rare smiles before signing off.

Yuuri sighs and resolves to set about working on his essay. His mind keeps returning to Mari’s revelation about Victor. It shouldn’t be so surprising. He knew before that Victor had worked with the company on several occasions, and it isn’t like that's something he could have done much of during the school year. Even so, the thought is persistent, though he can’t quite put his finger on why.

He decides to ask Victor about it the next time they rehearse together.

It’s nearly a week before that happens. They try to practice as much as they can—Victor insists a flawless showcase performance will give them an edge when spots are chosen for the exhibition gala in the spring, and Yuuri just wants to keep up—but it’s always difficult to fit extra sessions around their already packed schedules. Victor is never not busy, and Yuuri’s pointe lessons are still eating up most of his time. They’ve managed to make it work thus far, but it hasn’t been easy. Yuuri still worries he’s taking Victor away from his more important pursuits, even if he denied it when Yuuri dared broach the subject. He can never tell, with Victor.

Tonight they’re in the same studio where Yuuri first caught Victor dancing, which gives his insides a funny feeling that he doesn’t care to examine too closely. He’s trying to integrate some of his pointe technique into some previously choreographed movements, with Victor mostly spotting or lifting him at the appropriate intervals. Something’s missing, Yuuri knows, and they both realize it. Their dynamic together is improving, but the dance itself falls short of what would really convince Madame Baranovskaya to give them a slot at the gala.

The annual springtime Academy Exhibition Gala is a tradition dating back to the conservatory’s founding, a performative culmination of a year’s worth of learning and an opportunity to get noticed for professional work. The gala is held on the last night of the semester and consists of a multi-act assortment of separate showings, rather than a singe ballet in its entirety, which Yuuri assumes would be much more difficult to coordinate. There are a set number of performance spots, with allocated amounts for duets, solos, original compositions, and various other categories. Yuuri isn’t sure which, if any of them, he’s qualified for. He’s heard stories from Phichit about how fiercely competitive it gets. There’s no limit to the number of pieces an individual can appear in, but there’s no rule saying everyone is entitled to a spot either. As a transfer student returning from hiatus, Yuuri doesn’t have much confidence in his odds.

Victor is in his fifth an final year, which means he’ll have an opportunity to direct and choreograph a piece of his own for his senior thesis project. He hasn’t said anything about it, and Yuuri hasn’t asked, but he is a little curious.

There’s another thing, too. If, as Yuuri suspects, it was Victor’s Apollo performance in the exhibition gala that landed him a secure position with the Moscow International Ballet, there was really no reason for him to return to the Academy. Some dancers would kill for the stability of a guaranteed job with a prestigious company, and that isn’t hyperbole. From certain viewpoints, Victor’s decision to continue his education is a step back from the success they’re all fighting for.

“You have a lot on your mind today.”

Yuuri is jolted out of his reverie when Victor taps him lightly on the head. He doesn’t seem angry, even though they’re supposed to be practicing, just curious, so Yuuri tries his question.

“Why did you come back here after you toured internationally?”

Victor sighs, but he doesn’t look surprised by the sudden shift in subject.

“I was wondering when you would find out about that.” He takes a seat on the studio floor, motioning for Yuuri to join him.

“When I was eighteen,” he says, “I had the world at my fingertips. That must sound boastful, to you, but I can’t deny what’s true.”

Yuuri doesn’t doubt that it is.

“I was at the top of my class in the Academy, scheduled to pass my graduation exams with flying colors, and in the spring I performed my Apollo at the gala in front of an adoring crowd. I wasn’t sure, even then, if I was ready to go professional. I did have a little experience; I had danced with the company in the corps de ballet once before as a substitute for a man who broke his leg. That night they approached me to offer me my first real job.”

“And you took it.”

“I would have been a fool not to.” A soft smile comes over Victor’s face, remembering. “It was a wonderful time. I spent the summer rehearsing, and after performing here in Moscow we took the show to St. Petersburg, then Vienna, then Milan, then Paris and Berlin and London and New York City. We did a week in Hong Kong and two weeks after that in Tokyo.”

“I remember now,” says Yuuri. “There was a poster up in Minako’s old studio. She called about an old student of hers on tour in Japan, said she wanted to take me to see you, but she couldn’t get the time off to come for a visit.”

“It was a good show,” says Victor. “You would have liked it.”

“What happened after that?”

“We came back. And I had to make a real decision about my future.” He sighs again. “You should know that I put a lot of thought into it. I didn’t fall back on my Academy days as a mere whim, no matter what the rest of the world says.”

Yuuri is quiet a moment.

“Why?” he asks again. Victor inspects his palms, turning his hands over in his lap.

“I suppose…I wasn’t finished learning,” he says at last. “Is that a cop out? A true artist is never finished learning, so they say. But I’d seen the world and I wanted…I wanted to make sure the world would see me too, someday.” He pauses. “Does that make sense?”

Yuuri nods. “Some people would say it’s a waste. But I think it’s not a bad thing to want to learn more.”

“Of course not,” says Victor. “You’re here, after all.”

Here, instead of out in the professional world, which is perhaps where they both should be. But there is a marked difference between the two of them. Victor is at the Academy because he wants the extra training, and Yuuri wants it too, only that doesn’t really matter. He’s here because he needs it.

They finish rehearsing early, after that, with a promise to meet again the following evening, a Friday. Yuuri wonders if that’ll put a damper on any of Victor’s plans—isn’t he usually chasing a good time on the weekend?—but he hasn’t mentioned it.

Victor hasn’t asked, since that night at Alexander Garden, if he’ll come out with him, and Yuuri is afraid to bring it up. They’re still new at this whole being friends thing—Victor is by nature an outgoing and flamboyant person, and sometimes it means he doesn’t see the boundaries others (read: Yuuri) have in place. His stubbornness can be a good thing, at times, but he’s working at being more perceptive, and Yuuri is working at allowing himself to seize on the chance he’s been given.

Perhaps refraining from asking him to go places outside of practice (with the exception of their standing Saturday morning expeditions) is Victor respecting the boundaries Yuuri has set for them. Yet strangely enough, he finds himself wishing Victor would just ignore this barrier like all the others. It’s an irritating realization to come to.

They work quickly at the studio, and there’s a little less banter tossed back and forth than usual. Something passed between them yesterday, and even now Yuuri isn’t quite sure what, but perhaps it means they’re a little closer to understanding one another. Victor is slowly shedding his ethereal qualities and becoming an actual human being.

A human being he would like to know, Yuuri thinks, after their practice is finished, and takes a deep breath.

“Victor. Why don’t you ever want to spend time with me outside of class?”

His spine stiffens a moment, and when he speaks his words are light and careful.

“But I do spend time with you. We’re here now, aren’t we? And what about our Saturday mornings?”

“Doesn’t count,” says Yuuri. “That’s all routine by now. You asked me, once, but you haven’t since then.”

“If I recall correctly, you were unavailable.”

“I’d already made plans, I couldn’t just cancel on everyone. But not tonight.”

A little of Victor’s usual humor seeps back into his face. He raises an eyebrow. “Are you asking me out with you, Yuuri?”

And there it is, the obligatory once-per-conversation (at a minimum, Yuuri has to admit) blush that comes over his cheeks.

“Not when you put it like that,” he mumbles.

“I accept. Do you have any suggestions? We could go to a bar, or—

“No,” says Yuuri quickly. _Victor doesn’t need to see that. Not yet._ “I did have an idea though.”

“Oh?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I like surprises.” Victor runs his fingers up Yuuri’s arm to squeeze his shoulder, mouth close to his ear. “But I’m tempted to coax out more information on this one.”

Yuuri swats his hand away. “Flattery will get you nowhere. My lips are sealed.”

“Most unfortunately.”

Ah yes, there it is. The obligatory second blush. Although he is improving, Yuuri thinks. He can actually hold a conversation with Victor now, one that consists of more than just stammering out a few sentences and fleeing. He still doesn’t know why or how exactly Victor manages to have this effect on him—it would be all too easy to blame the dizzying intensity of his gaze, the way his poise and charm make him seem like he’s just stepped off the set of a film, and yet…Yuuri shakes his head. He contents himself with the knowledge that on the rare occasion he actually teases Victor _back_ he seems to get just as flustered a response.

Like now.

“That’s what’s so fun about surprises,” he says, spinning around suddenly to face him, leaning forward just a little. He lowers his voice. “Anything could happen.”

Victor shivers, or perhaps it’s only Yuuri’s imagination.

“Anything,” he repeats, voice breathy and somehow smaller than it was only a few moments ago. Yuuri can’t resist half a smirk, letting some of his triumph bleed in.

The door to the studio bursts open, and Yuuri is across the room fast enough that he wonders if he might be in the wrong profession and “Olympic track star” would have been a better choice.

Seung Gil Lee, another fourth-year, stands in the entryway. His face shows no signs of a reaction to walking in on two of his suspiciously guilty-looking classmates, but he tends to use expressionless as his default setting.

“I’ll come back later,” he says, and turns to go.

“It’s okay,” says Victor, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “We’re finished.”

Seung Gil shrugs and steps into the room. Yuuri follows Victor out.

“Now that we’re free, are you going to show me that surprise of yours?”

Yuuri is still reeling with more than a prickle of unease, but Victor looks so carefree and reassuring that he musters an attempt at a smile.

“Just let me drop off my stuff first.”

They agree to meet in front of the administration building in ten minutes and part ways. Yuuri changes out of the t-shirt he was practicing in, throwing on a sweater instead, then worries it’ll seem strange that he’s wearing something different, even if he usually does after he’s been rehearsing. Luckily Victor has changed too, into another of his seemingly endless supply of casual-but-classy jackets, and it looks like he’s even combed his hair back into place. Suddenly Yuuri feels disheveled.

“Ready to go?”

Yuuri nods, and sets off walking.

The ice rink he’s found is indoors and not far from campus. He’s not sure how big it is or how busy it usually gets—his guidebook Russian and fluency in Google Translate weren’t conclusive—but he’s reasonably certain he knows where it is and how to get there. It’s supposed to be one of the better spots for recreational skating at this time of year.

It’s also closed.

They stare at the sign in silence for a few moments, until Yuuri turns his back on it and bows his head.

“I should have known they’d be past closing hours. I guess practice went later than I thought.”

He bites back the swell of bitter disappointment threatening to cloud his brain. _Victor will never want to hang out with me again after such a disaster_ , he thinks, even if his rational half knows it isn’t true. Victor’s expression is unreadable.

“Shall we go for a walk?” he suggests.

They wind up buying hot apple cider from a street cart nearby, steam rising from the paper cups into the chilly night air. Victor leads them to a path by the banks of the Moskva River that ambles in the general direction of the conservatory, and they stroll alongside the water for their return journey. It’s a while before either of them speaks.

“I’m sorry,” says Yuuri quietly. “I wanted tonight to be better than this.”

Victor’s gait slows a little, and he turns his head back to gaze at him. “You don’t need to apologize. I’m happy just to be able to spend time with you.”

A warmth comes over Yuuri’s insides that has nothing to do with the cup of cider in his hand.

“I like spending time with you too.”

“It’s oddly fortunate,” says Victor. “If there had never been that mix up at the beginning of the year we never would have become partners in class, and without that we might never have really met.”

It’s almost certain they wouldn’t have, Yuuri thinks. _I would have been much too intimidated._ The prospect unsettles him somewhat.

“It’s all in the past now,” he says.

“Mm.” Victor takes a sip of his cider. “Yuuri?” He stops walking, and Yuuri stops with him.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For hitting the town with me tonight.”

A small laugh escapes him. “But my plan didn’t even work out. As far as nights go, this one has been pretty terrible.”

“I didn’t think so.” Victor cocks his head to the side as if considering something, then stoops down, picking up a pebble at his feet. “Bet you I can throw this from here to the other side of the river.”

“No way,” says Yuuri, fighting the urge to laugh again because if he laughs he might spoil this. “It’s much too far across.”

Victor just hums out a “we shall see” and draws his arm back. Yuuri’s right; he doesn’t even make it halfway, but now Victor has another two stones and he drops one into his companion’s hand.

“Think you can do better?”

“Challenge accepted.”

On the count of three they hurl their projectiles out over the water. Yuuri’s makes it farther by about half a meter, and Victor drapes himself exaggeratedly over the railing, cursing his defeat. Yuuri does laugh, this time, and Victor jumps up to spin him around, eyes sparkling.

“Race you back to the dorm.”

And before Yuuri can protest he’s off, leaving him to chase after and try to ignore the odd looks they’re getting from the other pedestrians. Victor beats him, so a career as an Olympic track star may not be in his future after all, but he manages to sabotage his foe with an outstretched leg as they get to the top of the stairs, so he has to perform some complicated dancelike steps to stay on his feet.

“Cheater.” He puts his hands on his hips. “I still won.”

Yuuri grins. “I guess that makes us even.”

“Pity. I was hoping I’d get a prize.”

“Next time, maybe.”

“So there’s a next time.” Victor’s eyes are dark in the dim light of the hall. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Fine by me.”

They stand opposite one another, bodies close and faces still flushed with exertion. Slowly, Victor reaches down and takes Yuuri’s hand, and his heart leaps into his throat. Victor presses something into his palm, closing his fingers around it.

“For you,” he says simply, so soft Yuuri can barely hear him, and then he’s up the next flight of stairs and gone.

Yuuri finds his hand is trembling. He opens his fingers slowly, revealing a small stone, like the ones they threw into the river, round and smooth in his grasp.

And really, it shouldn’t make his chest ache, staring at it. It’s just a _rock_ , and not even a particularly remarkable one, grey and speckled with a faint covering of dirt.

He puts it on his bedside table anyway, and when he looks at it again, just before he turns out the light, the same warmth he felt earlier in the evening coils in the pit of his stomach. When he falls asleep he’s smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact for my first “totally a date but neither of us is actually going to call it a date” I too was gonna to go to an ice skating rink only for it to be closed. We’ll get ‘em next time, Yuuri. Also I apologize for the lateness! New Year’s weekend was pretty busy for me (scrubbing toilets to prepare for having company over, yay) but I really appreciate your patience. I hit 100 subscribers with the last installment and I want to thank you all for your wonderful support! It truly means a lot to me <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Me: I’m gonna spend hours researching ballet for this AU when I should probably be doing other things  
> Me: *proceeds to write an entire chapter with almost no actual ballet*

“Would you get coffee with me sometime?”

It’s another rainy afternoon in the studio. This is the third week Mila has met with Sara to work on her form, though she’s improving so rapidly Mila fears that soon these sessions will become obsolete. They don’t have any courses together, Sara being a year ahead, and they don’t see each other much outside of the classroom. This is the first time either of them has broached an interest in fraternization, and the question takes Mila by surprise.

“Coffee?”

“If you drink it. Otherwise we could do something else.” Sara finishes tossing her belongings in her bag, heading for the door. “Will you come?”

Mila lets out a heavy breath and tosses her hair back.

“Coffee sounds great,” she says, in what she hopes is a confident, casual tone.

“Fantastic.” Sara slips a scrap of paper into her hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Mila doesn’t remember if she’s busy tomorrow morning. She also doesn’t care.

The paper bears only a string of characters. (They’re even Cyrillic, Mila notes, marveling a little at the courtesy.) It’s Sara’s phone number, scrawled out in an elegant, curly script, the ink the same shade of violet as her eyes. Sara is the sort of person who would dot her letters with hearts, Mila thinks.

She texts Sara later to inquire about a place to meet. Sara replies with a suggestion and a time frame, and they settle on each. Mila debates for ten minutes on whether or not to include an exclamation point after _see you then_.

She wakes too early and spends an hour agonizing over what to wear. She’s never done this before, or if she has it’s been a long time, and she feels resentful about missing a rare weekend opportunity to sleep in, even if it’s her own fault. Even Anya isn’t up yet, and that girl takes her morning runs way too seriously.

Eventually she decides on a button-up she hasn’t worn in months and a pair of jeans that are nice but not _too_ nice, so it doesn’t look like she’s making too much of an effort. They have holes in the knees, which her parents say defeats the purpose of long pants in a Moscow winter, but they don’t understand fashion trends that go past the 1960s. She pulls on her sturdier fall boots— _take that, mom_ —and makes sure to grab her keys before leaving.

Sara is already waiting at a table by the time she finds the venue. She waves brightly when she spots Mila, and Mila offers an awkward half-raised arm in return, scooting around the other patrons to drop to a seat on the cushioned stool.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Sara plops a cup in front of her. “I already ordered for us both. I hope you don’t mind.”

Mila shakes her head.

Sara is wearing a pale blue dress that the weather grew too cold for several weeks ago, along with a fluffy white sweater that looks so soft Mila has to resist the urge to reach out and touch it. She blinks and tears her eyes away before Sara can accuse her of staring.

“At least it’s not raining again,” she says.

“The sun may make an appearance yet.” Sara casts a glance out at the cloudy sky. “If we’re lucky.”

“Let’s hope.”

“Have you eaten breakfast?”

“No,” Mila admits. “But you’ve been here before. Anything to recommend?”

It’s easy, discussing simple things like the weather and having Sara describe the menu to her, gushing over a particular pastry that reminds her of home. It’s certainly easier than groping about for a subject than transcends the bonds of small talk, which happens to comprise most of any talk they make. Mila isn’t sure if she expected things to be any different, but she feels strangely nervous, and whenever she casts around for one of her usual witty and delightful remarks there are none to be found. She distracts herself with ordering a plate of cheese dumplings to split at Sara’s suggestion. They arrive dusted with powdered sugar, garnished with fresh strawberries.

“You were right,” she says. “Delicious.”

“Told you.” Sara grins, stuffing a forkful in her mouth.

They eat quietly, and Mila thinks she should say something to break the silence, again coming up empty. She’s about to fall back on the most reliable subject of all, school, when Sara’s phone buzzes.

“Sorry,” she says, pulling it out to check, then frowning and sliding it back in her pocket.

“Who was it?”

“My brother.”

“What does he have to say?”

“Oh, the usual. Complaining about my absence, asking me if there’s some guy he needs to come beat up for me. I’ve tried to tell him I can handle myself, but…” She shrugs helplessly.

“Well,” says Mila, “you can lay his fears to rest. I am no man. And anyway, I bet I could take him any day.”

Sara laughs in a way that is a little startled but mostly pleased-sounding. “I’ll be sure to pass that along.”

“On second thought, it’s better if you don’t. I can’t have the whole Academy knowing about my great and awe-inspiring abilities.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

Now, Mila thinks, she is beginning to feel more like her usual self. She’s relaxed a bit since she entered the café. She and Sara are just having a normal conversation, the way friends do.

 _Even if we’re not really friends_ , she reminds herself. Or are they? She does have Sara’s phone number, and here they are, sitting across from one another at a coffee shop on a Saturday morning, conversing solely for the fun of it.

“How is your semester going, Mila?”

It’s a standard question, a Grade A triviality, but Sara manages to ask it like she’s genuinely interested. Mila takes a minute to ponder her answer.

“It’s probably too soon to tell,” she says, “but I think this may be my best one yet.”

“Really? That’s good to hear.”

“I’m working harder this year. I think I want to stay on and complete the extra training, unless I get a really good job offer when I pass my exams in the spring.”

Sara raises an eyebrow. “ _When_ you pass your exams?”

“ _If_ isn’t a possibility, right? I refuse to accept the notion of failure.”

“Don’t we all,” Sara murmurs. “Still, it’s a noble aspiration.”

“Do you like it?” Mila asks. “The fourth-year coursework, I mean. I’m interested in pursuing it, but I don’t want to end up regretting my decision.”

Sara wraps her hands around her half-finished cup of coffee, tilting her chin up in consideration. “That’s a good question. It’s more intensive than anything I’ve done in the past, but I’m enjoying it, I think.”

“And is it helpful to you as a dancer?”

“You’ve seen me the past few weeks.” She knocks back a sip. “What do you think?”

“You’re better than me,” Mila says. “So I guess the training has to count for something.”

“That’s true. Better than you, though. I’m not sure I agree with that statement.”

“Come on, you can’t really think I have anything you don’t.”

“Of course you do. Every dancer is unique, and each of us has our own particular style.”

“That still doesn’t mean I’m better than you.”

“Maybe not.” Sara takes a final swig of coffee. “Well, it’s not worth starting a debate over. Let’s just say we’re both highly talented individuals and call it even.”

Mila grins at her. “Alright by me.”

“But enough about school. I have a much more important question for you.”

Mila’s heart beats annoyingly faster in her chest, and she fights to keep her voice neutral. “Oh yes?”

“Does pineapple belong on pizza?”

Mila’s stomach drops. “ _That’s_ your question?”

“ _Highly_ important, I assure you.”

“This is utterly absurd.”

“C’mon, pleeease?” Sara bats her eyelashes exaggeratedly, and Mila raises her hands to the heavens, but she can’t keep the corners of her lips from twitching into a small smile.

“Fine. I don’t have much experience with pizza but I’m allergic to pineapple, so…I guess, no?”

“An acceptable answer. We can be friends after all.”

“What would you have done if I’d said something different?” Mila demands, but inside she’s thinking _friends, Sara Crispino said she is my friend._

“I would have pushed this table on you and fled,” says Sara. “Obviously.”

“Glad that’s been cleared up.”

Now that they’re both finished with their food and beverages alike, Mila isn’t sure what the appropriate etiquette is. Do they split the bill and get on with their days, or stick around to talk a while? She’s leaning towards the later, and Sara isn’t making any move to leave. _We can stay a little longer, surely._

“Do you have any hopes for the exhibition gala?”

“Everyone’s already talking about that,” says Sara, “like they do every year. It’s October. The assignments won’t be out for three more months. People can chill.”

“It’s a big deal,” says Mila. “So. Do you?”

“Have hopes?” Sara tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, glancing down at her plate rather bashfully. “I suppose. Don’t we all?”

“Thus the talk, even if it’s too early.” Mila pauses. “I don’t know exactly what I want to do this year, but I want it to be something big. I guess that’s what everyone wants.”

“It is why we’re here.” Sara looks up, her gaze pensive. “Last year I danced pas de deux with my brother. I dance pas de deux with my brother every year, although that was the first time we moved beyond the classroom. This time around I’d like to do something different, if I’m able.”

And it’s on the tip of Mila’s tongue to say _if you’d like, start by dancing with me_ , but she remembers herself just in time. She gives her head a shake, scolding herself inwardly.

“I believe you can,” she says instead, which is itself a sort of confession, and Sara smiles at her in gratitude. She’s about to speak when her phone buzzes again. And it’s only a text, but she squeezes her eyes shut a moment, and when she opens them again they look almost sad.

And then in a flash she’s all smiles again, apologizing and digging out the phone, though Mila notices she barely glances at the message before stuffing it back.

“Mickey again.” She stands, pushing in her chair a little reluctantly. “I’m sorry I have to cut this short. I was hoping we could spend some more time together.”

“We can,” Mila blurts, before she can stop herself. “Another time, when you’re not busy.”

Something on Sara’s face stills, becoming serious for just a moment. “I’d like that.”

“And I’ll see you next week at the usual time?”

“You can count on me.”

Mila is distracted enough watching her go that she doesn’t realize Sara’s settled their bill until she’s already out the door. Damn her and her sneakiness. Mila will have to make up for it next time.

The prospect of a “next time” is still dizzying, cut through only by the memory of that fleeting look in Sara’s eyes, like sadness and something else she can’t name. She wonders where exactly Sara rushed off to, and whether her brother has anything to do with it. (The answer, Mila knows, is almost definitely a yes. She knows, too, that it’s none of her business, which is why she’ll never ask.)

She has about an hour to herself when she gets back to her room, during which she attempts to finish reading the assigned chapter of her practical theory textbook like she planned, but her mind mostly wanders. Yuri barges in at some point in the afternoon and demands she take him to lunch, and she obliges because it means next week she’ll be able to ask him for the same favor.

“Otabek and I were so busy training I missed the cutoff for the dining hall,” he says around a mouthful of pelmeni. “And then he offered to make lunch for me because he said it was _his_ fault I was late, which is stupid.”

“It’s sweet.”

Yuri nearly spits out his food. “Why do you have to call everything _sweet_ all the time?”

“Sorry,” says Mila. “How horrendous of him to volunteer to prepare a meal for you. Clearly.”

Yuri just rolls his eyes at her.

“How is Otabek, anyway?”

“He’s…fine.” Yuri’s eyebrows knit together in suspicion. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Mila.”

 _Not as bad as you_ , she thinks, but she only smiles, and Yuri pokes her with the tip of his fork.

“Fine, then. Keep your secrets. I guess I’ll have to keep the latest gossip on a certain Sara Crispino to myself in return.”

“You haven’t heard any gossip,” Mila scoffs.

He folds his arms. “Oh haven’t I?”

Damn him, he looks entirely too smug to be lying. If he were just winding her up he wouldn’t have achieved quite this level of satisfaction.

“Yura,” she says in her most casually entreating tone, “I’ll split my dessert with you if you tell me more about this so-called rumor.”

“No deal.” He smirks at her. “What else do you have to offer?”

She steps on his toe. “One would think that, as I was so kind to treat you to lunch today, I might already have done enough to earn your gratitude.”

“I’m still not convinced.”

She steps down harder on his foot, smiling at him brightly, eyes glinting.

“ _Ow_ ,” he yelps. “Jesus, Mila, I’ve still got bruises.”

“Sorry,” she says, and it isn’t sarcastic because she’s only too familiar with the battering that accompanies their way of life. “So are you going to tell me?”

“Ugh. Fine. I heard from Isabella Yang, Sara’s roommate, that she’s been going out more lately.”

“What were _you_ doing talking to Isabella Yang?”

“Trying to pick up blackmail material on JJ,” says Yuri, like it’s obvious. “Anyway, what Isabella said is that usually whenever Sara goes anywhere that isn’t class it’s with her brother, but lately she’s been taking off alone. I thought you’d want to know.”

He’s right, unfortunately, but still…

“Did she say when these absences have been occurring?” Mila asks.

Yuri glares at her. “ _No._ And don’t ask me to find out for you, that’s borderline creepy.”

“It’s just that I’ve been helping her work on her form,” says Mila. “So I think I might be the cause of the change in behavior Isabella’s referring to.”

“You’ve actually been talking to her?” Yuri raises his eyebrows. “I’m almost impressed.”

“It’s not _that_ surprising.”

“It kind of is. Haven’t you been mooning over her since you got here?”

Mila flushes. “I wouldn’t describe it as _mooning_.”

“I would,” says Yuri. “It’s disgusting. You’re almost as bad as Victor.”

“I don’t think anyone is as bad as Victor when he’s interested in someone.”

“He’s a moron,” Yuri agrees. “I’m drafting a plan to keep him away from any potential flings this year at all costs.”

“You might as well have him become a hermit in the mountains.”

“That’s the hope.”

It’s nice, having a conversation with Yuri that hasn’t turned into a shouting match, even a good-spirited one. Mila wonders if the influence of having a friend he didn’t grow up training with is changing him.

He steals two-thirds of her dessert when she’s not looking and staunchly claims otherwise when asked about it, and she sighs.

Some things, of course, don’t change at all.

* * *

It’s not that Yuuri isn’t doing well at pointe.

The knowledge he’s retained from his previous lessons helps, and so does his determination to prove to Madame Baranovskaya and the rest of the Academy that she was right to choose him for this. Minako critiques him, as she should, but offers him praise where it’s due, and claims his form is coming along nicely (“almost what it used to be,” she says).

So it isn’t that he’s not doing well. But he isn’t quite getting it, either.

Maybe it’s only because he’s taking these classes with Yuri Plisetsky, who is two years younger than him and still manages to give him a run for his money, flourishing where Yuuri flounders. He’s graceful and poised, relentlessly hardworking, with a focus many boys his age lack. He has the makings of a prima ballerina, or a premier danseur, and Yuuri…Yuuri doesn’t.

“Hey, pig.”

He’s collapsed on the ground, exhausted, and Yuri nudges him with the toe of his shoe, expression akin to someone discovering an unpleasant piece of litter lying in their path.

“What the hell was _that_? This was your worst practice yet.”

Yuuri sits up, wincing a little. “Thank you _so much_ for reminding me. Anything else you’d care to share?”

It’s unusual for him to be so snarky, and Yuri frowns at him.

“I know you can do better,” he says, and storms off.

Yuuri isn’t sure what to make of that statement. He’s used to Yuri telling him to give it up or go home if he can’t hack it, but this is something different. It’s oddly encouraging, Yuuri notes, with some concern. What does that say about him?

“You must learn to reinvent yourself,” says Madame Baranovskaya, as her students are assembled at the barre for their first lesson of the morning. “The ability to be born anew every day is what will make you a true dancer.”

It’s a favorite mantra of hers. Yuuri can’t complain—he’s been trying since he got here to let go of who he used to be.

She cuts class short that day and has her students stand at the back of the room to watch a demonstration. Victor has brought in one of the fifth-year girls, someone Yuuri doesn’t recognize, and together they launch into a routine he remembers helping Victor rehearse for one of his other classes. Some of the choreography is familiar to Yuuri, and it’s strange, seeing him dance it with someone else.

Victor is in full form today. Yuuri doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone pull off leggings and a unitard in so classy a manner, and his face is fully made up, red lips curved into a gracious smile. Even though the focus of the piece is on his partner, he manages to avoid appearing obsolete. He supports his partner while also leaving no doubts as to his own prowess, all without calling too much attention to himself (a first, perhaps). He throws Yuuri a wink on a jeté battu. As he moves through the port de bras Yuuri catches a flash of polish on his nails.

“What did you think?” he asks later, when they run into each other outside the dining room. He sees how Yuuri’s eyes catch on his hands and laughs. “I can do yours, if you’d like.”

Yuuri finds himself nodding, and then he’s being led up to Victor’s room, _Victor Nikiforov is letting me inside his room_ , and then it’s just the two of them. Victor closes the door.

“I’m done with class for the day. Yuri won’t be back for at least another hour.” He lies back on the floor, arms beneath his head. “I’m all yours.”

_All yours._

Yuuri kneels slowly on Victor’s carpet. “Then…I’m ready.”

Victor shifts so he’s lying on his side, head propped up with a careless hand, inspecting him thoughtfully. “Will you fetch my case for me? It’s in the top drawer.”

Yuuri crosses to the dresser and carefully pulls it open, sifting through an assortment of ties until his hands find a small box with black velvet covering. He passes it to Victor, and their fingers brush briefly together.

Victor lifts the lid, setting it aside gently, and draws out the objects inside one by one. There’s something almost reverent in his gesture, something that feels intensely private. Yuuri is glad, suddenly, that he’s here, that Victor is trusting him with this moment.

“We’ll do your nails first,” Victor decides, “so they’ll have time to dry before you go.”

Yuuri just nods, not commenting on the “first” part, and Victor begins to sort through the various colors, holding them up to Yuuri’s skin for consideration. He cracks the window open, letting the chill of late autumn seep into the room.

“The ventilation in this building is terrible. Yuri is going to hate me for this.”

“If he doesn’t already.”

“He doesn’t really hate me, even if he acts that way.” Victor uncaps one of the bottles, dabbing a dot on a scrap of paper next to him, and shakes his head. “He doesn’t really hate a lot of people. Except JJ. He definitely hates JJ.”

Yuuri doesn’t know JJ very well, since he’s a third-year and not in any of the same classes, but like everyone else here he has his own reputation, so Yuuri supposes it kind of makes sense. The guy does seem a little too stuck-up for his liking, but he can’t really judge him without knowing him better.

Victor paints another swatch on the paper and holds it up to Yuuri’s arm.

“I believe we have a match. Would you agree?”

It’s a deep Bordeaux red, much heavier than any color Yuuri usually wears, but seeing it now he’s admittedly a little intoxicated by the prospect of sporting it on his nails.

“Go ahead.”

Victor takes one of Yuuri’s hands in his own, letting his knuckles rest delicately against his lap as he works. He’s quieter when he’s focused, his brow furrowed just slightly, silver hair falling over his face. Yuuri wants to reach out and brush it back for him, but is afraid it’ll break his concentration.

“Right hand complete. Now on to the other one.” He makes as though to continue his work, but stops with his fingers on Yuuri’s wrist, gaze growing pensive before brightening.

“I’ve just realized what’s missing,” he says, standing. “We need music.”

Yuuri thinks this is a recipe for a certain kind of dangerous atmosphere, but he can’t bring himself to stop him. Victor puts in a CD (an actual CD, like he’s old but not quite hip enough for a mixtape) and a few seconds later a hushed song begins to play, sonorous and slow. Yuuri can’t quite make out the words.

“Much better,” says Victor, and he crouches back down again.

He finishes Yuuri’s left hand more quickly. Neither of them talks much while he’s working, but the silence doesn’t feel stiff. It’s comfortable, Victor’s skin skimming softly against his own, the music in the background lulling him into a dreamy state.

“What do you think?”

Victor pulls back, and Yuuri looks down at himself. He’s impressed with Victor’s handiwork—if their roles were reversed, he feels sure he would have gotten the polish everywhere, but his cuticles, along with the rest of his hands, remain quite clean. Seeing the red there is strange, but not unpleasantly so, and he smiles.

“I like it.”

“I knew you would. Shall we do your face now?”

“My face.” Yuuri nods.

Victor inches closer, laying out all the brushes and compacts and other implements in a row beside him. He runs his fingers along the line until he makes his first selection.

“Hold still,” he commands.

It’s an unnecessary statement. Yuuri isn’t sure he could move right now if the whole building was on fire.

Victor leans in closer, dipping a sponge into one of the containers before smearing it across Yuuri’s cheeks. It’s some kind of foundation, he thinks, though he can’t tell from the label. He’s no stranger to painting his face in this manner—he’s a dancer, after all, a performer, and this is what they do—but he’s always been careful to avoid appearing ostentatious. Or he was, before Moscow. Before Victor, really, because everything about Victor is extravagant and somehow that’s okay.

“I used to love doing this before a show,” Victor remarks. “I would always arrive to the dressing room half an hour before I needed to, when no one else was around, just so I could have the place to myself.” He finishes administering the base coat and starts in with the powder. “I’d spread everything out in front of the mirror and watch my own transformation step by step. Yakov would nag at me for being vain, but I was always exceedingly punctual on those days, so he couldn’t complain too much.”

“Was he on tour with you?” Yuuri asks.

Victor nods. “He danced with the company for a very long time, and he was very good at his job. He gave it up twenty years ago to teach, but they still ask him back sometimes, when the rookies need someone to whip them into shape. He was with us for two months, during the leg of our journey in Eastern Europe.”

“You really did go everywhere.”

“Not everywhere,” says Victor, “but many places, certainly.”

Yuuri tries to imagine it. The world seemed immeasurably big when he moved to Moscow, but it gets bigger every time he really thinks about it. He wants to see it all, someday, standing on the same stage as Victor. A selfish wish, he tells himself, and one that is hardly likely to come true, but no matter how hard he tries he can’t push the thought from his mind. He remembers the night he spent watching Victor’s Apollo performance, how enthralled he was then, how enthralled he still is whenever they’re practicing together.

 _I want to dance with him._ Not just here at the Academy, but out in the big, big world. A lump wells up in his throat, and he’d bury his head in his hands in an attempt to hide from his own hopes if Victor wasn’t still dutifully brushing at his face.

He lifts Yuuri’s glasses gently off his nose, picking up a pencil. “Close your eyes.”

Yuuri does so, and Victor begins to apply the eyeliner. He’s close enough that Yuuri can smell whatever cologne he’s wearing, and something else beneath that, sweat mixed with a scent that Yuuri can’t pinpoint but is indescribably _Victor_. His breath on Yuuri’s face as he works is feather-light, and suddenly the whole room feels too hot, even with the window open, and Yuuri can’t help reaching up a hand to claw at the neck of his shirt.

“Okay?”

“Fine,” he says. “Just—keep going.”

He can hear the grin in Victor’s voice. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”

Yuuri feels him move away a few moments later, and peeks his eyes open.

“I think that turned out quite well,” Victor murmurs, almost to himself. “Now for the lipstick, and then we’re finished.”

Ordinarily, Yuuri wouldn’t be thrilled at the prospect of spreading something that had been on someone else’s mouth all over his own (performers do it all the time, but he’s always been a little appalled by this general lack of regard for proper hygiene). But it’s _Victor’s_ mouth, and he tries to tell himself that this doesn’t (or shouldn’t) make any difference, but even he has to reach a point where he’s skeptical of his own denial.

Victor chooses a red a few shades lighter than that of his nails. He kneels on the floor in front of Yuuri, cupping one hand gently around the back of his neck to steady him. Yuuri’s eyes flutter closed again.

He feels Victor draw closer, and then there’s the soft pressure of the lipstick against him. Victor applies it deftly in only a few strokes, and he backs away again, though his hand still hasn’t left Yuuri’s neck. He combs through Yuuri’s hair with his fingers, pushing it back, and Yuuri can’t help leaning into him a little. It feels nicer than he’d like to admit.

“Do you want to see how you look?”

Yuuri nods, opening his eyes, and Victor returns his glasses. He holds out a mirror, and Yuuri draws in a small gasp. He touches his cheek, as if in disbelief.

“Victor,” he breathes. He means to say more, but his mind goes fuzzy, and the words get trapped in his throat. Somehow Victor understands, and he beams, offering Yuuri a hand.

“Dance with me.”

“Wh—what?”

“We can still rehearse, can’t we? Every moment counts.”

“Of course.” Yuuri takes his hand and stands shakily. “Um. What should we do to begi—

Without warning Victor twirls him around, catching him around the waist and grinning down at him. Yuuri squeaks.

“Or this. This works too.”

There isn’t much space in the room, and they have to be careful not to knock over any of the various bottles and containers that are still strewn across the floor. It’s great practice, actually. Yuuri darts around the obstacles on his toes, surprised at his own agility, and wonders if he’ll be able to replicate this footwork at his next pointe lesson. He would try harder to remember it, but Victor’s chest is pressed up against his back now, and that knocks the reason right out of him.

The music is still playing, but Yuuri hardly registers it; he wouldn’t be able to say, if asked, whether the tempo was slow or fast, or what language the lyrics were in, if there were any lyrics at all. His sense of time falls away too—everything but the rhythm of their bodies as they move together and apart again fades into the background, irrelevant and unimportant.

Victor dips him, arm beneath his lower back for support, and Yuuri gazes up at him. They’re both frozen in place, breathing heavily.

“Yuuri,” Victor says, tone hushed like his name is a revelation. “You’re beautiful.”

He bites his lip, trying to tear his eyes away from Victor’s. “Because of you.”

Victor shakes his head.

“Always,” he says. “You’re always so beautiful.”

At that moment the door bangs open, and both of them jump apart. Yuri stops in the doorway, surveying the scene around him with an utterly blank expression.

“Victor,” he says flatly, “I’m going to kill you.”

“As long as you don’t get blood on the carpet, or you’re paying for it.”

His voice is such a masterful replica of his usual cheery tone—if Yuuri hadn’t been dancing with him just now, he would think nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Yuri rolls his eyes. “I’d be paying for it anyway because you’d be _dead_.”

He throws his bag onto his bed and climbs up after it, collapsing on his back and closing his eyes.

“If you’re going to keep dancing,” he says, “you’d better find somewhere else to do it.”

He looks tired, Yuuri realizes, perhaps even too tired to maintain his customary angry persona. It’s a relief, but something feels off about it too.

“Is something wrong?”

“Go to hell, pig.” But the phrase lacks Yuri’s usual venom.

“You know,” says Victor, “whatever it is you can talk to m—

“If you finish that sentence I will get up right now and punch you in the face.”

“Victor.” Yuuri puts a hand on his arm. “I should go. Will you walk me back?”

“But your room is just upsta—

Yuuri kicks him.

“I mean yeah, for sure.”

Yuuri marches out, pulling Victor along by the elbow. He closes the door behind them.

“Sorry,” he says. “I think…Yuri could probably use some space right now.”

“You’re right, of course.” Victor tucks a flyaway strand of Yuuri’s hair back into place. “What do you think? Care to accompany me to the studio?”

“Actually, I really should get back to my room so I can study. I have this paper due, and…” He stops. “But you don’t want to hear about that. I’ll go now.”

Victor’s hand is at his cheek, cupping his jawline, before he can move.

“I always want to hear what you have to say.”

“Even if it’s boring?”

“I did say _always_.”

Even with his heart hammering Yuuri manages to level a raised eyebrow at him. He launches into a near-verbatim repetition of Celestino’s lecture on the influence of aristocratic money on the development of court ballet in the fifteenth century, which he gave the previous class and described beforehand as “unfortunately the driest lesson I have ever been required to teach.” Victor claps his hands over his ears, laughing.

“Okay, okay, point taken.”

“I could go on.”

“ _Don’t_. Please. Taking that class once was enough for me.”

“Are you insulting the integrity of Catherine de’ Medici’s legacy?” Yuuri claps a hand over his heart in mock-offense. “Celestino won’t be happy to hear that.”

“You’re terrible,” Victor tells him, “teasing me like that.”

“You’re one to talk about teasing.”

And suddenly they’re too close again, like when they were dancing, but this time there’s no music or pretense of practice, just the empty hallway around them. Victor opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again.

“I have to go.”

And before Yuuri can so much as blink Victor is gone, retreating down the central staircase without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas, another delay. I should be back on schedule next week, but my break is over soon, which means I'll have to devote more of my time to studying. I'm hoping I'll be able to stick to updating every Monday and Thursday as the new semester starts, but there may be some fluctuation depending on my workload.


	5. Chapter 5

They’re supposed to rehearse like usual.

Yuri woke up early this morning with the intention of spending a few hours at the studio with Otabek, but it’s been fifteen minutes and there’s still no sign of him. He isn’t the type to be late, which means something’s up.

When the clock hits minute twenty, Yuri decides he may as well give it up and starts for the door. Otabek walks in just as he’s about to leave.

“Sorry,” he says, “the traffic was bad today.”

_Traffic?_ As far as Yuri knows he walks here from his apartment in who-the-hell-knows-where, and unless there’s been a serious increase in pedestrians he can’t imagine any situation that would delay him more than five minutes. His arms are behind his back, like he’s hiding something.

The next think he notices is that Otabek doesn’t have any kind of bag with him. He doesn’t usually carry around much in the way of gear, but he doesn’t even have his fucking _shoes_.

“Otabek,” says Yuri, his even tone undercut by clenched teeth, “would you mind explaining to me what exactly is going on?”

He doesn’t even have the grace to look ashamed. “I would think it’s obvious.”

“We’re not practicing today?”

Otabek shakes his head. _I have something better in mind_ , his eyes seem to say. He tosses a helmet to Yuri, who catches it, turning it over in his hands. He looks back up.

“You ride?” He shouldn’t be surprised, he thinks, not by Otabek, of all people.

“Are you coming?”

Yuri just follows him to where he’s parked the bike. He’s never actually been on one before, and riding with Otabek is—well. It’s different, in a way that Yuri wasn’t expecting. God forbid he actually find he’s _enjoying_ himself, but with the wind whipping his hair out behind him, the city flashing by in a colorful blur, he can’t resist a small smile. He’s glad Otabek is driving and can’t see him.

They stop when they’re long past the city limits, right next to a small pond, and Otabek hops off the bike, holding out a hand to help him dismount. Ordinarily Yuri would scoff at such an offer of assistance, but the rush of the ride must still have him feeling giddy, because he grasps Otabek’s fingers and pulls himself upright.

“Where are we?”

“Medvedeva Park.” Otabek pulls two wrapped parcels from the pocket of his leather jacket, handing one to Yuri. “Here.”

Yuri tears off the tissue paper to reveal a sandwich, cold chicken and mustard, only slightly squashed from the journey.

“I couldn’t exactly bring a basket with us on the bike,” says Otabek, “but this is a start.”

“It’s a little cold for a picnic,” Yuri mutters, even though the weather is nicer than it has been in days. It’s still winter, or getting pretty close now, which means it’s certainly too late in the year to while away an hour crouched against the wind, staring at some dumb pond.

Otabek merely raises an eyebrow at him. “We can go back to the Academy, if you’d like.”

Yuri stuffs his hands in his pockets and kicks at the ground, but says nothing. They both know they’re not going back now. Grumbling, Yuri drops to a seat on a large boulder and takes a bite of his sandwich.

“Tastes good,” he concedes. “Where did you get this bread?”

“I baked it myself. An old family recipe.”

Otabek never talks about his family. Yuri doesn’t either, unless he’s been caught off-guard and coaxed into bringing up his grandfather, and then when he starts it’s hard to stop.

“I like it,” Yuri says, for lack of anything better.

There’s that softening of the eyes that happens whenever Otabek is pleased about something, a silent thank-you, subtle as ever, but slowly Yuri is learning to read him better. Otabek sits beside him and they eat together.

It’s unseasonably warm for November. The temperature has been hovering around freezing for weeks now, but today the sun is shining, glinting off the snow that is starting to pile up on the curbs, casting diamonds of light across the calm surface of the pond. It makes a lovely scene, Yuri has to admit, and it really isn’t as cold as he complained earlier, not that he’ll give Otabek the satisfaction of saying so. They toss their food-soiled papers in a bin and approach the water’s edge. It hasn’t frozen over yet, though there’s a thin sheen of ice near the shore that breaks under Yuri’s curious foot.

“The air is quiet here,” Otabek remarks. “It’s nice.”

Otabek is the type to enjoy quiet, Yuri thinks. He doesn’t mind it himself, sometimes, appreciates it even, on the days his bones aren’t screaming at him and his skin doesn’t feel suffocatingly small. He doesn’t see the harm in a little noise, either. He crosses his arms against his chest, affecting an indifferent tone.

“So. Did you take me all the way out here just to look at some old pond, or do you have something else planned?”

“I might,” says Otabek simply. He scoops up some of the scummy water, completely straight-faced, and splashes it at him. Yuri yelps, darting back a few steps and glaring at him.

“Jesus, Otabek,” he says, when he’s recovered enough sense to speak, sucking in his breath at the chill. “You’re a sadist.”

“I would have thought the Ice Tiger of Russia impervious to such things.”

It’s a stupid nickname, dredged up from a headline about some ballet several years past, though secretly Yuri rather likes it. Otabek flinging it at him now is sheer goading, a direct challenge.

“You’re going to pay for this,” Yuri says, matter-of-fact, and Otabek actually grins.

“That’s more like it.”

He dodges out of the way just in time as Yuri lunges toward him, and takes off along the strand. Yuri sprints after him, yelling obscenities and swearing vengeance as he goes, kicking up swirling eddies by his ankles in his wake.

When he finally catches up to Otabek he tackles him to the ground (the grassy part, and not the water, because contrary to popular belief Yuri isn’t _that_ cruel). Before he can go about exacting his retribution Otabek twists out from underneath him and is off and running again. Yuri makes a grab for his shin but is a hair too slow, landing hard on his elbow, and he curses loudly.

“Otabek Altin you motherf—

“Finished fooling around yet? I can do this all day.”

Damn him, he hasn’t even broken a sweat. The side of Yuri’s shirt is sticking to him where the water hit him, and the front of his jeans is covered with dirt. Otabek’s hair is a little ruffled, but he’s otherwise infuriatingly unscathed. That needs to change.

With a cry like a banshee, Yuri charges him, arms outstretched and head down. He barrels into him, and Otabek goes sprawling. Yuri worries for a fraction of a second that he went too far and got his friend hurt, but then he doesn’t have time for sportsmanship because Otabek is trying to pull him down too.

“Oh no you don’t.”

Yuri dances out of his reach and slaps a hand to the pond’s surface next to him. A jet of water shoots up, drenching them both, but it covers Otabek more so he’s satisfied. Yuri collapses on the grass next to him. They lay there, breath puffing out above them in clouds, until he musters the energy to speak.

“We’re going to get hypothermia and die.”

Otabek heaves himself to a seat. “Or we could make a fire.”

“Is that even legal?”

Otabek shrugs and doesn’t say anything, which is all the answer (and encouragement) Yuri needs.

“We’ll do it.”

That “we” ends up being mostly Otabek, because Yuri’s never seen the inside of a tent in his life and he certainly never learned fire-building or any of those other outdoorsy skills. But Otabek knows what he’s doing, and he talks Yuri through the process, explaining the necessity of building a ring for containment, sending him off to gather kindling.

Eventually they get a nice, tidy blaze going, and Yuri stands inside the circle of stones, greedily soaking up the warmth. Otabek stands next to him, palms bared over the flames. Watching the lumps of driftwood burn steadily to a crisp is cathartic, in a way.

“Better now?”

Yuri isn’t sure if he’s referring to the fire or something else entirely.

“Why bring me here?” he asks.

Otabek doesn’t seem surprised at his interest. “You’ve been restless lately.”

There’s a question behind the statement, if he wants to answer it.

“That’s nothing new,” says Yuri, watching him carefully.

“Maybe not.” Otabek’s gaze doesn’t waver. “And it’s nothing that can be outrun so easily.”

_Doesn’t mean I can’t try_ , Yuri thinks grimly, and perhaps this is why they’re here today. They’re trying.

“What made you decide to come to Russia?”

He regrets the question as soon as it leaves his mouth, but Otabek is unfazed, only offering him a half-raised eyebrow and the expression he gets when he’s mulling something over.

“If you want to get the best training, you go to Russia.” His statement is businesslike, pragmatic. “I already spoke the language. The French was difficult at first, but I’m getting better at it.”

“And why here?” Yuri isn’t sure what’s compelling him to pursue this line of inquiry. Asking about each other’s personal lives isn’t something they’ve done much of before—they don’t talk, really, and when they do it’s usually about dance. “Why not Vaganova, or the Bolshoi?”

“I tried,” says Otabek. “When I was ten. Vaganova didn’t want me.”

“Oh.” Yuri isn’t sure what to say to that, but Otabek continues.

“It took me a few years to realize I didn’t want them, either, but by then I was too old for the Lower School and transferring would have felt strange to me. So I took lessons in Almaty until I could apply for the upper level.”

It’s the most words Yuri’s ever heard him say all at once. He’s quiet for a moment, thinking about it.

“What about you?”

“I’m from the city,” he says. “It made sense.”

Otabek looks like he has a follow up on the tip of his tongue, but he gives his head a little shake, more for himself than for Yuri.

“Come with me,” he says instead.

Yuri doesn’t bother asking where they’re going.

Otabek dumps water over the fire, which hisses and then sputters out. They climb back on the bike, Yuri’s arms tightening around Otabek’s waist for support, and they’re off.

Otabek takes him to a roadside market, one of the last remaining before the cold sweeps in for good. The banners, a conglomeration of old sheets and painted tarps, flutter in the breeze that has begun to pick up, stark against the setting sun. Strings of lights trail between the stalls, with the flames of little tea candles dancing precariously on wooden tables. Yuri, never one to miss an opportunity, pulls out his phone and snaps a quick picture to Instagram later.

He doesn’t bother asking if Otabek knew this was here—from the determined set to his jaw, it’s clear he’s got something else planned, another layover in their act of temporary escapism.

A few moments later, when Otabek puts a gentle hand on his arm to stop him in front of one of the booths, Yuri realizes what it is.

“Pirozhki,” he says, breathing in the scent of the pastry. It looks well-made; Otabek’s done his research.

“You said it was your favorite.”

Yuri does remember mentioning it offhandedly after class one day, maybe a month ago. He’ll have to give Otabek more credit for his memory.

“How much?” he asks the vendor, and she smiles, pointing at her sign.

They’re cheap, as far as good pastry goes, and Yuri is tempted to buy a whole bagful to carry back with them. Instead they buy two each, uncaring for the moment about such banal things as calorie restrictions, and Yuri wraps his second one to save for later.

They stroll through the rest of the market together, commenting on the stalls they pass around bites of food. Yuri stops dead in his tracks when he comes across a table entirely devoted to cat paraphernalia, and it takes most of the self-restraint he possesses to keep walking and not blow all his money right there.

His mind has quieted somewhat with the day, and he notices that Otabek too seems lost in thought. He’s been trying to say something all afternoon, Yuri thinks, but doesn’t push him. He’s learned that with Otabek, it’s best to let these things run their natural course without interference. It may take him a while to pick out the right words, but he’ll have them assembled eventually. It may be an hour from now, or in a week or two, or even another month, but he’ll find them.

There’s a nagging sensation at the back of Yuri’s brain, tugging at him until finally he pulls out his phone to check the clock he’s been avoiding. It surprises him, the realization that he doesn’t want this to end, but the day is nearly spent, and he has other obligations he must attend to this evening.

“Otabek.”

The other boy doesn’t turn his head, but Yuri knows he’s listening all the same. He musters the words reluctantly.

“We should think about going back soon.”

“Mm.” Otabek nods, and adjusts their course so they’re headed back in the direction of the bike.

The sun has set behind the hills now, and there’s a gathering darkness in the air. Otabek clicks the headlight on, but the road is dusky as they depart.

Riding the motorcycle at night is completely different than during the day. Yuri tips his head back, watching as the stars peek over the horizon one by one, actually visible now that they’re outside the haze of city lights. Directly above him the moon hangs, a sliver of a crescent to illuminate their path.

They pull up in front of the Academy some time later, and Yuri checks his phone again. He has just enough time to dash up to his room and change clothes before his pointe lesson. He lingers by the bike, unsure if he should thank Otabek or just mutter a goodbye and walk away like always. For once the other boy speaks first.

“Yuri.” He stops. “I enjoyed today, Yuri.”

Yuri frowns at the ground, scuffing his toe in the dirt.

“Me too,” he admits, and then suddenly Otabek’s pulling him in for a gruff, one-armed embrace.

“Until next time,” he murmurs, close to his ear, and swings himself back on the bike. He’s gone before Yuri can pry his mouth open to speak.

_Still doesn’t know how to say goodbye_ , he thinks, staunchly ignoring the grin spreading on his face. He hesitates a beat longer, then remembers he’s expected at his lesson in less than five minutes now and sprints up the dormitory stairs.

He makes it to the studio, barely, but the pig is there first, and Madame Okukawa too, and Yuri can count the number of times they’ve both beaten him on one hand. The way they look at him—curious, and a little concerned—makes his blood start to boil again.

“What?” he growls, and they turn their heads quickly away.

“Nothing,” says Madame Okukawa, and forces a smile. “Let’s begin.”

He throws himself into the work, letting his thoughts hone in on the task of perfecting each movement, emotion and everything else fading to the background. It’s his usual routine, and if something feels off about it today, he’ll just have to bury himself deeper. He can’t decide if he’d rather have the freedom right now to think about the day he’s had, or if he’s grateful for the distraction. (He _is_ grateful for the distraction, but a little too grateful, and that would worry him if he wasn’t concentrating so hard on not feeling anything.)

Yuuri’s mind seems absent too. He’s been that way a lot lately, like his heart isn’t in the training, not that Yuri’s noticed. He’ll always be the more talented one, of course, but as they pack up their gear something pulls at his stomach.

Madame Okukawa has rushed off to some other appointment, leaving them alone in the studio. Yuri pauses as he’s about to unlace his pointe shoes.

He remembers Yuuri asking if anything was wrong that day a couple weeks ago, when the pounding in his veins was just a little more unbearable than usual. _Idiot_ , he thinks. _Why can’t he mind his own stupid business?_ At least he had the sense to clear out, unlike a _certain_ terrible roommate he could mention. With a beleaguered sigh he stalks over to the other side of the room.

“Before you say anything,” he starts, voice half a snarl, “I can do nice things too if I want.”

He hauls him up by the arm, and Yuuri levels him an appraising glance. “I’m not sure I’m sold on your definition of nice.”

“Look, do you want my help or not?”

He blinks. “Your help?”

“Your technique is terrible. Mine isn’t.”

Yuuri looks like he has another retort on the tip of his tongue, but then his shoulders sag slightly, and he sighs.

“Yeah. I could use your help, Yurio.”

“If you start calling me that I will personally ensure you leave here with one less kidney than you had previously.”

Yuuri just smiles at him. It’s horribly unfair and he regrets his decision to march over here immensely. He stays anyway, to make good on his word, complaining the whole way through. Yuuri has the sense not to point out that he’s the one who offered to do this in the first place.

They only stop when Yuri begins to notice a distinct gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach. All he’s had to eat today are that sandwich and the pirozhki from the market, and he’s famished. When he bails Katsuki doesn’t even look offended, which annoys him greatly.

He’ll have to text Otabek about it.

* * *

On the walk back to the dormitory, Yuuri mulls everything over. His life has seemed full of surprises lately, and surprised is all he can feel as he thinks about Yuri offering (albeit grudgingly) to make corrections for him, mingled with a twinge of gratitude. He’d never have thought the kid had it in him.

His first impulse is to tell Victor, but he stops himself as he reaches for his phone. There are a lot of things he wants to tell Victor, these days, because Victor is never around to hear them.

He pretends to himself that he doesn’t know when it started, but if he’s being honest, he thinks it has something to do with that night he had Victor do his makeup. The night Victor ran away.

Calling it that is an exaggeration, and Yuuri supposes he is probably being a little too dramatic, but what is he supposed to do when one of his closest friends refuses to answer his texts for a week?

He hasn’t told Phichit about it yet, but he knows his roommate will wrest the information from him sooner or later, because Phichit always finds out, and then there’ll be trouble. Phichit isn’t afraid of head-on confrontation—especially when it means there’ll be pictures to share later—but Yuuri has always preferred to take a quieter approach. (His “quieter approach” usually means going around knotted with worry while refusing to say anything about it, but he tries not to think about that.)

At least Victor has started talking to him again, which means there can’t be anything really wrong, Yuuri reasons. They’ve even rehearsed a few times since then, although not as often as before, and Victor always dashes away the moment they’re done, offering nothing but a fleeting, apologetic smile. They haven’t had a real conversation in several weeks now, and Yuuri finds he misses it. He tries not to think about that either.

Phichit is typing something at his desk when he comes in.

“How did your lesson go?” he asks, without looking up. Yuuri throws his bag down and perches at the edge of his bed.

“The Russian Yuri offered to help me with my technique.”

That gets Phichit to swing his head around. “I’m amazed. So the human ball of anger has a heart after all.”

“I suppose everyone does. Even angsty teenagers.” Yuuri pauses, debating whether he should voice his next words. “Actually, speaking of hearts…there’s something I want to tell you.”

He fills his roommate in on everything, minus the details of the make up and that moment by the stairs. For once Phichit listens without interruption, and when Yuuri finishes he lets out a long, slow breath.

“That’s a tricky situation you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“I know.” Yuuri lies back, his eyes finding the patch of ceiling he usually stares at when he has too much on his mind. “I can’t figure out what I did to upset him.”

“Maybe you didn’t do anything.”

Yuuri rolls over and shoots him a skeptical look. “Sure, he started acting like this around me out of nowhere because everything’s _fine_.”

“Point taken,” says Phichit. “I just mean…maybe it’s more of a him thing, and less of a you thing.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“What is Victor to you, exactly?”

“He’s my friend,” says Yuuri. “Only that.”

There’s something akin to sympathy in Phichit’s gaze. “Yeah. Of course.” He stretches, slinging himself out from underneath his bed. “I’ll give you some time to yourself now.”

“Thank you.”

“And Yuuri?” He pauses in the doorway. “It’s not as difficult as you might think, for people like us to have friends.”

Yuuri swallows. “You really think so?”

“Sure. Just look and Guang and Leo.”

He’s gone before Yuuri can ask him any questions.

The next time Yuuri’s hanging out with the trinity he pays special attention to the two younger dancers. He’s a little embarrassed, but Phichit must have said something, because suddenly it’s all so clear. He notes the way Guang-Hong leans his head on Leo’s shoulder, the other boy’s arm slung casually around his waist, the glances they give each other when they think no one’s watching.

_People like us._ They’ve become an “us” now, which Yuuri finds strangely comforting.

“So,” says Phichit, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms. He has the look on his face he gets when he’s planning something, and that seldom bodes well. “Yuuri. What do you intend to do about your problem?”

They’re all in Leo and Guang-Hong’s room, making their way through a pile of old movies and not paying much attention to any of them. Phichit has claimed the only chair, while Guang-Hong sits with Leo on his bed and Yuuri is sprawled out on the floor. He isn’t sure what time it is, but he knows it’s been at least a few hours since the sun went down.

“Problem?” Leo tears his eyes away from a video on Guang-Hong’s phone to glance up at him curiously. “What is it, Yuuri?”

“Nothing important,” he mumbles, glaring at Phichit, who only smiles dazzlingly at him in return. _Traitor._

“It’s very important. Do you remember how I told you about Yuuri and Victor being pas de deux partners this semester?”

“How could we forget?” says Leo.

“We’re both still jealous,” says Guang-Hong.

“Do we really have to talk about this?”

“Yes, Yuuri, now shh. I’m giving them context. So Yuuri and Victor are friends, right, and I mean, that guy is smooth. You should see the flowers he got this one time—

“Phichit.” Yuuri’s face is bright red. “Is that _really_ relevant?”

“Sorry,” he says. “Well, a few weeks ago they were hanging out together, when Victor ran off, and now they’re barely speaking.”

“Ouch.”

“He only started talking to Yuuri again because they have to rehearse. Before that he was avoiding him completely.”

“I don’t really know if that’s quite the right way to put this—

“Yes it is.” Phichit waves a hand at him. “So. There’s the problem. Yuuri wants Victor back, and we have to help him do it.”

Yuuri groans and buries his head in the carpet. Leo’s tone is thoughtful.

“Wants him back in what capacity?”

“ _Friendship_ ,” Yuuri says pointedly, though his voice is muffled by the floor. He lifts his chin enough that he can speak unimpeded. “And I want to be able to work together in class without feeling like this weirdness is interfering with our ability to become better dancers.”

“How drearily mature of you,” Phichit quips. “In any case, you’re right. If this is getting in the way of both your happiness and professional growth, then something needs to change.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to be the one to change it,” says Yuuri. “I don’t think I know him well enough to work up the courage.”

“How much _do_ we know about Victor?” Guang-Hong asks. “I mean, personally. We all know about his various dance-related talents, and can probably infer some other abilities of his from the gossip alone.”

“He’s a man with specific mannerisms, as they used to say.” Leo looks like he’s enjoying this a little too much. “Salutes another flag, gives too much change for a dollar, has a silk bathrobe…I could go on.”

“Actually,” says Phichit, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Victor _does_ have a silk bathrobe.”

Neither would Yuuri, but that’s not the point.

“ _Anyway_ ,” he cuts in, “I’m not going to do it.”

“But _Yuu_ ri.” Phichit’s features take on a stern expression. “How are you going to win back Victor’s friendship if you won’t _talk_ to him?”

“He’ll talk to me,” says Yuuri. “And if he doesn’t, it probably means he was never very interested in being friends to begin with.”

“That isn’t the only explanation for things, you know.”

“What else could it be?”

Phichit doesn’t answer him right away, which he takes as confirmation. He stands to go.

“Wait.”

They’re all looking at him, Phichit and Leo and Guang-Hong, and now his roommate is standing too.

“Has it ever occurred to you that he might be just as afraid to reach out as you are?”

Yuuri’s laugh is strained. “Victor Nikiforov is not _afraid_. At least not of someone like me.”

“Someone like you.” Phichit smiles at him, and there’s genuine fondness on his face. Yuuri feels a lump well up in his throat.

“It’s impossible,” he whispers.

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“That’s a terrible idea.”

“It’s the best idea there is, and you know it.”

Yuuri tries to frown at him. “I thought real friends were supposed to give comforting, unhelpful advice.”

“There will be no comfort here.” Phichit gives him a little shove. “Now go. Talk to him. You can thank me later.”

He probably will, Yuuri thinks glumly, but there’s no time to worry about that now. He has to devote all his energy to worrying about talking with Victor instead.

He decides to try Victor’s room, since that’s as good a place to start the search as any. He knocks once on the door, and a very irate Yuri answers it.

“What do you want?”

“Is Victor in?”

“ _No._ ” Yuri glowers at him. “He went off to the studio for practice.”

“At this hour?”

“I keep telling everyone he’s insane.”

“Thank you,” says Yuuri. The second-year rolls his eyes.

“I’m not your damn Victor GPS,” he says, and closes the door.

Yuuri isn’t sure what he’ll do when he reaches the practice rooms—even if there’s no one else nearby, he can’t very well go around pounding on every door until he gets a response—but luckily he doesn’t have that problem. He can hear Victor’s music playing, like before.

The sound emanates from the half-open door of the last studio in the hallway. Yuuri can’t tell if the song is the same as it was that first time—it’s an aria, with words he doesn’t recognize, but he doesn’t remember the words to the song he heard his first night here either. Walking down the corridor, he has an odd sense of vertigo, like he’s reliving part of the memory.

This time, he opens the door fully, and when Victor spins around he looks visibly shaken a moment at the sight of him, nearly losing his footing. He recovers himself quickly, crossing to the stereo system and taking out the disc before packing it back in his bag.

“Yuuri! Did you want to use this room? I’m just finishing up, I’ll be out of your way in no time.”

He’s so _good_ at this—he’s several meters down the hall before Yuuri can open his mouth to speak.

“I came here looking for you.”

His steps falter.

“Unfortunately I’m terribly busy this evening,” he says. “Another time, perhaps.”

He goes a little faster, but Yuuri’s come too far now to be deterred, so he follows.

“Phichit says you’re afraid of me.”

Victor stops walking. His back stiffens and his voice is light, but he doesn’t turn around.

“That’s preposterous.”

“That’s what I told him.” Yuuri takes a step forward. “Are you?”

“Am I afraid?” And Victor faces him, then. He’s smiling, but something throbs behind his eyes. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

Yuuri takes another step and closes the remaining distance between them. “Why?”

“It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“Yes, it is.” Yuuri pokes him in the chest. “I thought you were my _friend_ , Victor. Now it feels like you don’t want that.”

“I do.” His voice is small, and he squeezes his eyes shut. “Believe me, I do. It’s just—

“What?”

“I don’t want to ruin this.”

“And avoiding me,” Yuuri says, and he can’t keep the hint of a smirk from his lips, “that’s your way of not ruining things?”

It’s the first time he’s ever seen Victor look truly bashful.

“I…hadn’t really thought it out that far.”

Yuuri’s gaze softens a little. “It’s okay to talk to me, Victor.”

Victor glares at him in indignation. “Well you weren’t exactly jumping at the chance to communicate either! I thought I must have made you angry, so I decided I would give you time to get over it before I tried anything.”

“So we’re both idiots.”

“It seems that way. Am I forgiven?”

“I’m tempted.” Yuuri leans into him. “But I won’t let you off the hook so easily.”

For the first time there’s a ghost of Victor’s usual grin on his face. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Then…can we just agree to forgive each other, and start again?”

In answer, Victor throws his arms around him and hugs him tightly. Yuuri is too startled to move at first, then tentatively wraps his arms around Victor in return.

“I’ve missed you,” Victor murmurs into his shoulder.

It’s such a silly thing to say. Yuuri smiles, even so.

“I’ve missed you too.”

And Victor pulls back, linking their elbows together, and continues his journey down the passage.

“Now that that’s settled, we should figure out a time to meet so we can rehearse.”

Ten seconds into their reunion and he’s already making plans for their ballet practice. Not that Yuuri is complaining.

“Okay,” he says, “but you still haven’t told me.”

“Told you what?”

“What you were so afraid of.”

“It’s nothing,” Victor says, with a smile that is only a little forced. “It hardly matters now.”

And Yuuri knows there is more to it than Victor will admit, but for the moment he lets it pass. If it means they can be friends again, Yuuri thinks, let him keep his secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Medvedeva Park, as you may have guessed, is named in honor of Evgenia Medvedeva: two-time Grand Prix Final champion, world-record holder for ladies’ short and free program scores, vocal Yuri on Ice enthusiast, and keeper of my heart. The coded phrases that Leo used come from [this](http://the-toast.net/2015/05/22/code-words-for-gay-in-classic-films/) article by the Toast because I couldn’t resist


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birthdays and other holidays.

Mila is trying resolutely to go to bed early (for once) when the knock on her door comes.

Tomorrow is the last day before their winter holiday officially begins, and the conservatory has been in its usual uproar. Even though classes haven’t been let out yet, some of the students are leaving already, catching what flights they can to spend the season back home, which makes it rather difficult for business to proceed as usual. It’s one of the drawbacks to an international academy, she supposes.

Blinking her eyes open, she waits a moment to see if she’s imagined the new sound, but the tapping comes again, harder this time, and she blearily gets to her feet. Across the room Anya is already snoring. Mila tiptoes to the door, pushing it open hesitantly.

Sara stands outside, wearing a troubled look that is quickly put away at the sight of her.

“Mila. Hey.”

“Hey,” says Mila. “Um. I don’t mean this in a rude way, but what are you doing here?”

“I came to say goodbye. Mickey and I are flying out tonight, so we can be with our family on Christmas Day.”

“So I won’t see you tomorrow morning.”

“No.” Sara gives her a mischievous smile. “But I thought I’d give you one last dance before we’re a few thousand kilometers apart.”

“A little late for dancing, isn’t it?” Mila looks down at her flannel pajama bottoms to hide the blush creeping across her face. “What time do you leave?”

“In an hour, actually. I’m already finished packing, but Mickey insists that we double check. He’s being _insufferable_ about it.”

Mila puts her hands on her hips. “You’re hiding from him.”

“Maybe.” Sara doesn’t look a bit ashamed. “Will you help me?”

She pretends to consider it. “What will I get in return?”

“My eternal gratitude? And that dance I promised.”

“How could I turn down an offer like that?”

They creep out to the studio, Mila still in her pajamas, with only a sweater hastily thrown on against the cold. At least it isn’t snowing when they step outside. Sara huddles closer to her (for _warmth_ , Mila’s brain reminds her, but she can’t help enjoying it).

They leave the lights low, and Sara puts on a playlist of soft string music.

“I was thinking we could try something a little different tonight.”

“That being?”

“We’ve been going over the same choreography for weeks now,” says Sara. “I want us to improvise. Together.”

Mila bites her lip. “I don’t know about that.”

“Come on, I saw you dance that day we first started practicing together. You have a real talent for improvisation.”

“That was different.”

“Oh yes? How so?”

_I was alone_ , Mila thinks. Aloud, she says, “I didn’t really mean to do it. The whole thing was…spontaneous. I’m afraid it’ll be much different if I’m actively trying.”

“Then don’t try.” Sara takes her hands. “Just let yourself move in time with the music.”

That’s a difficult thing for Mila to do when they’re in such close contact with each other. Still, she resolves to concentrate (or _not_ concentrate, however that works). Sara starts them off, a slow pas marché in three-four time. She releases one of Mila’s hands and they begin a polonaise, promenading down the length of the floor. It’s all very restrained and careful, like they’re still feeling each other out.

Mila’s reservations loosen a little when Sara lands a double cabriole pointing at her, the smirk on her lips an obvious challenge. She takes the bait and does an exaggerated saut de basque, casting her arms out in Sara’s direction, and she laughs. They dance without regard for form or propriety, their only goal to outdo each other in showmanship and dramatics. Sara grabs her hand and pulls her into a mazurka, the latest character dance Mila’s class has begun to study, and then suddenly they’re facing each other, arms positioned for a waltz.

Sara leads her into it—is leading, while Mila stumbles her way through the follower’s part, regaining her footing as they go along. Sara twirls her and Mila shifts their stance so that she’s now the one in control. Sara lifts an eyebrow at her.

“I…” she says, and as she’s trying to think of more there comes a harsh pounding on the door.

A look comes over Sara’s face that Mila is sure she’s seen before, when they met that day at the coffee shop. They wait a moment, and the hammering increases. Sighing, Sara breaks away from her to answer it. “Yes, Mickey?”

She says the words before she gets a full look at the knocker, but she’s correct in her assumption. It’s her brother glowering at them both in the entryway. Mila feels a little cowed by the sternness of his gaze.

“Sara,” he says, “what is the meaning of this? I’ve been looking for you everywhere. We leave for the airport in five minutes.”

“Is it five minutes already?” She feigns surprise. “How time flies. I had no idea, Mickey, honest.”

He scowls, but he doesn’t contradict her. “We need to go.”

“Of course,” she says, and forces a smile. “I’ll just go unplug my phone.”

Mila forgot that the music was still playing in the background. Now she starts, heading for the phone so she can hand it off to Sara, pretend for them both that this whole thing was casual and send her on her way before Mickey gets angry. They reach for the cord at the same time, hands bumping against each other.

“Sorry,” says Mila, “I’ll just—

She steps back. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Mickey watching them carefully, lips pursed. He says nothing to either of them. Sara straightens up, device in hand.

“I guess this is goodbye,” she says. “We won’t be seeing each other for a while.”

“Yeah,” says Mila. “So. Goodbye. For now.”

“For now.” For a moment the false cheerfulness of her exterior fades, replaced by something softer and more genuine. “You’d better not forget to text me over the holiday.”

“Sara.”

“Yes, I’m coming.” She pauses a moment, then hugs Mila close, breaking away quickly. If Mila didn’t know better she’d say there’s a red tinge to her cheeks. “I’ll see you in the New Year.”

She whirls around and directs her attention to her brother, taking his arm as they head out.

“I won’t forget,” Mila calls after them, belatedly. She gets another hint of Sara’s laugh before they’re gone.

Later, when she’s trying (and failing) to get to sleep, she makes good on her promise.

_Aren’t you going to thank me for coming to your rescue earlier?_

She hits send and instantly regrets it. What if Sara doesn’t realize she’s only teasing? _She’s probably already on the plane_ , Mila reasons, _and by the time she’s seen this I’ll have sent an apology._ She’s about to do so when a text comes through.

_As soon as you thank me for our dance._

She’s playing along. Before Mila can stop herself, she types _alright, then I thank you_. She pauses a moment. _Even though we were cut short._

Sara’s reply takes longer this time, and Mila wonders if her flight has taken off after all.

_I’ll have to make it up to you next time._

She hides her grin in her pillow, replaying the words as she falls asleep.

* * *

The day before Yuuri leaves for Japan, Victor shows up outside his door with a grin and a proposition.

“I know it’s not a Saturday morning,” he says, “but will you come with me?”

And Yuuri should really be taking this time to pack, now that classes are out of session, but it’s Victor and it’s always a little more difficult than he’d like to say no to Victor, particularly when he wants, very much, to say yes.

“Give me five minutes.”

They meet in the lobby, and Victor takes his arm, guiding him out onto the pavement.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“We don’t exactly have a good track record with those.”

Victor smiles at him. “You’ll like this one. Trust me.”

They have to take the metro, which in his nearly four months of living in Moscow Yuuri has never done before. Victor purchases their tickets at the window with his troika card, and they push through the turnstiles onto the crowded platform.

It’s a very elegant station. Cleaner than Yuuri would have expected, and rather artfully designed as well. Not at all like what he’s used to. Something of his astonishment must register on his face, because Victor laughs.

“This city is known for its beautiful metro stations,” he says. “You should see Komsomolskaya. There are actual chandeliers.”

The train itself is so packed that the two of them barely have space to squeeze between the other passengers. Victor’s elbow is jammed uncomfortably into Yuuri’s side, but neither of them can really move out of the way. This is more like the public transit Yuuri remembers—cramming into a car in the middle of a Tokyo rush hour, trying not to step on a toe or a hundred. He’s always been thankful Hasetsu is too small a town for anything like that, although he’s found he rather enjoys the anonymity of the big city, even if it’s intimidating sometimes.

They stay on for a few more stops, until Victor signals they’re getting off and wades his way to the door, Yuuri trailing in his wake. He points out the art deco columns in Mayakovskaya station as they pass (“one of the most beautiful stations of them all, Yuuri, it’s famous across the world”). After that they walk several blocks through a neighborhood Yuuri doesn’t recognize until they come to a large rink.

“Patriarkhskiyi Prudi,” says Victor. “Patriarch’s Ponds. There’s only the one pond, though. I never knew why they called it that.”

“Victor,” says Yuuri, “is this what I think it is?”

“If you think this is an attempt to make up for not getting to go skating back in October, then yes, you would be correct.”

Yuuri wants to throw his arms around Victor and hug the air out of him, but he restrains himself. They’re still too new to the whole hugging business, and while Victor’s readiness to bestow his physical affections on a whole host of people is one thing, Yuuri embracing him out of nowhere is quite another. Instead he smiles.

“Thank you,” he says, and Victor smiles warmly back.

“Shall we go?”

They rent skates and trundle their way out onto the ice. It’s been a year or more since Yuuri last did this—he liked to skate, growing up, at the rink his friend Yuuko now owns with her new husband. It was never more than a recreational interest, but it was always fun, and perhaps if ballet hadn’t consumed his life so quickly he could’ve developed a real talent for it. He sneaks a glance at Victor, who is steady enough on his feet. He’s no novice either.

“Do you go skating much?” he asks.

“Not often,” says Yuuri. “I enjoyed it when I was younger, but as I got older ballet started taking up more of my time.”

“It’s difficult, being an artist and athlete both,” says Victor. “It leaves so little room for anything else.”

They start by skating in slow circles around the edge of the pond. There are a lot of people around, and Yuuri doesn’t want to risk ramming into any of them. He stays close to Victor, or maybe Victor stays close to him, and for a while they don’t talk, only glide side by side in silence. There’s a light snow falling from the clouds, not enough to be a hindrance, but just the right amount to make everything seem a little more magical, dusting the awnings of decorated shopfronts and the tips of the trees overhead. Victor stares out at it all, pensive.

“I wish I could take you here for the celebration of the New Year,” he says quietly, “when everything is lit up. It’s quite stunning.”

“I’m sure.” Yuuri pauses. “I’m happy you took me here today, though.”

“I hope I’m not taking up too much of your time,” Victor says. “You probably have plenty of packing to do.”

“Yes,” Yuuri agrees, “but I like you taking up my time.”

“I’m glad.”

There’s a little catch in his voice, unless Yuuri’s imagining it.

They’ve been gradually picking up speed as they make their rounds. Suddenly Victor takes Yuuri’s hands and he stumbles, catching himself just in time.

“Careful.” Victor grins, tugging him closer. He’s skating backwards now. “We wouldn’t want you to fall.”

“I—what are you doing?”

“Skating with you.” The expression on his face is maddeningly cheeky. “That’s why we came here, right?”

“This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Yuuri mumbles.

“Would you like to stop?”

Yuuri twists him around so that now he’s the one skating backwards, pulling Victor along. “I didn’t say that.”

Victor’s grin widens. “Good.”

They weave between the rink’s other patrons, dodging hapless learners and seasoned skating veterans alike. Victor tightens his hold on Yuuri’s fingers, bending his knees to spin them around. It goes really well for about .3 seconds, and then Yuuri loses his balance and goes sprawling. Victor falls with him.

The ice hurts, but Yuuri is numb to it as he stares up at Victor’s face above him. He’s pushed himself up onto his elbows, knee between Yuuri’s legs, and he’s wearing such a startled expression that Yuuri would laugh if his heart wasn’t suddenly pounding in his ears.

Victor rolls off of him, and he pushes himself to a seat, wincing.

“Let’s not try that again.”

“It was fun while it lasted,” says Victor, and helps him to his feet.

They skate a while longer, and by the time they exit the rink it’s nearly dark. They make their way back to the metro station, a companionable silence settling over them. Victor hasn’t let go of Yuuri’s hand since they left the ice.

“I almost forgot,” says Yuuri. “It’s the 25th. Christmas, at least in Japan.” At home, his mother will be baking the usual cake, and his father will be using the holiday as an opportunity to drum up some business amongst the tourists. Otherwise, things will remain more or less the same.

“Here we don’t celebrate until January,” says Victor. “And it’s mostly only a religious thing. But you’re right, today is special.”

“It is?”

Victor doesn’t answer him right away, so Yuuri elbows his side. He laughs, a little absently, and turns to him.

“Sure. It’s my twenty-first birthday.”

“I didn’t know.” Yuuri lowers his eyes. “I’m sorry.” His head snaps back up again. “Um. Happy birthday!”

“Thank you.” Victor squeezes his hand, and they keep walking.

“If I’d known…I wouldn’t have made you spend the day with me. You’d probably rather be doing other things.”

Victor stops, a look of fond confusion blooming on his face. He drops Yuuri’s hand, lightly cradling his cheeks instead.

“Yuuri,” he says gently. “I’m the one who asked you to be here today, because that was what I wanted. There’s no one I’d rather spend my birthday with.”

Yuuri flushes beneath his fingertips. “R—Really?”

“Of course.” Victor draws his hands away, face brightening suddenly. “I know! We’ll go for hot chocolate and walk by the river, just like last time.”

They aren’t all that close to the river, and now that the sun has dipped below the horizon the temperature has cooled considerably. But it’s Victor’s birthday, so Yuuri nods his acquiescence.

The moon does look beautiful, shining above the water, casting its pale imitation on the glassy surface below. They stare out at it together, shoulders brushed up against each other, and there’s a warm buzz in Yuuri’s brain. On a night this beautiful, he almost expects Victor to lean over and kiss him, but that would be silly.

They meander along the riverside, and it takes them almost an hour longer than usual to find their way back to the Academy. Neither of them minds. At the door to his room, Victor takes Yuuri’s hand, pressing his lips briefly to his knuckles.

“I had a lovely birthday,” he says, and Yuuri is happy, so happy it scares him, a little, but he swallows it down.

Maybe it’s selfish of him, to be so greedily enjoying this, but he can’t bring himself to care.

* * *

Yuri has never been to Otabek’s apartment before.

It’s the first official morning of their holiday, and the Academy has been emptied, its students departed to airports and train stations to visit their families, or make a brief return to whatever other homes they know. Yuri’s grandfather won’t be able to pick him up until tomorrow, and with the school closed Otabek has graciously offered him a place to stay in the meantime.

“There’s no point in you paying for a hotel room,” was his response, when Yuri hesitantly broached the subject several weeks ago.

“Won’t you be going home, too?”

Otabek’s face took on an unfamiliar expression, and he paused. “Not this year, no.”

Yuri knew then not to question him about it, regardless of his curiosity, and that was that. On the appointed day Otabek showed up outside his door at a truly ungodly hour to help him carry his things. Yuri hadn’t even finished packing.

Now, several groggy hours later, he’s dumped his luggage in Otabek’s entryway, and he stops to have a look around.

It’s not a very big apartment, but Yuri expected as much. It’s comfortable, is what matters, and that’s what Yuri didn’t expect. The houseplants lining every window, the stack of books on the coffee table, the pans hanging on the wall of the little kitchenette—it feels warm, lived-in, not just a place to crash between time at the studio. Somehow Yuri never pegged Otabek for someone who would pay attention to the details that transform a residence into a real home.

“Your place is a mess,” he says, which is true. Otabek shrugs.

“Didn’t have time to clean.”

Yuri can tell some effort has been made. The floor is mostly clear, and piles of papers and more books have mostly been moved discretely to corners. He doesn’t really mind the clutter. His grandfather always kept a tight house, growing up, which had its own merits but meant Yuri was never able to grow adjusted to the luxury of disarray. He’s fallen into the habit of keeping everything strictly ordered himself, a strange contrast to the disorderly nature of his usual conduct, but Otabek’s apartment makes for a nice change.

From the entry he can see the kitchenette on his left, with some storage space to his right and a small living area directly ahead. Beyond that is the bedroom and a closet with a sink. Otabek doesn’t have his own bathroom. He shares with the couple in the unit next to his, which seems strange to Yuri, but he doesn’t say anything about it, only makes a mental note not to go in there without shoes.

Now that they’re both here, he’s struck with the curious pressure of doing something to fill the silence that has descended between them. He thought himself long used to their patchwork conversations, often made up more of quiet space than anything else, but he’s just dropped half his belongings on the floor of his friend’s apartment, and shouldn’t he have something to say about that?

“Am I not worth cleaning for?” Yuri puts his hands on his hips. “I’m offended.”

“Isn’t friendship taking people as they are?” Otabek counters. He hefts one of Yuri’s bags back onto his shoulder. “Come on. I’ll show you where, uh. Where you’ll be sleeping.”

“Pretty sure I can see the couch from here, thanks.”

But Otabek doesn’t lead him into the living room, instead pushing open the door to the bedroom and ushering Yuri inside.

“In here,” he says.

Otabek’s room is sparser than the rest of the apartment. There’s a bookshelf (how does he have time to read all of this stuff?) and a nightstand with a lamp. A wooden chair with a needlepoint cushion sits in one of the corners, with a door leading out onto a small balcony next to it. There are another two houseplants balanced precariously on the windowsill. In the center is a twin size bed with pale yellow sheets, neatly made.

“Bit small for two people, isn’t it?”

Otabek goes bright red. It’s the first time Yuri’s ever seen him blush like that, he thinks, a little triumphantly.

“That’s not—

He takes a deep breath, forcing it out, and looks back at Yuri. “It would hardly be hospitable of me to make you sleep on the couch. I can take it for one night.”

Yuri rolls his eyes a little. “You know most people don’t offer their own beds to houseguests, right?”

“Most houseguests won’t complain to me in the morning about how my couch messed up their back.” Otabek seems to regain a little of his composure, masking any remaining discomfort with an earnest tone. “I’m fine with you taking the bed, Yuri. Really.”

“As long as you’re sure,” he says, and adds a muttered _weirdo_. Otabek ignores the insult and heads back out into the kitchen.

“Are you hungry?”

“Not yet.”

Otabek opens the door of his refrigerator. “Good. I forgot to get groceries.”

“Do you want to go do that?”

“It can wait a little while. Let’s give ourselves a chance to warm up first.”

Yuri can’t complain. It _is_ pretty cold out, even for Moscow. He drops down onto the couch and kicks his legs up on the coffee table.

“It’s a better flat than I would’ve expected from a seventeen-year-old guy.”

Otabek coughs. “Eighteen, now.”

“You’re _eighteen_?” From his seat, Yuri gives his shoulder a playful shove. “Since when did you get so old?”

“Since my birthday,” says Otabek.

“I know that, dummy, I meant you should’ve told me when it was.”

“October 31st.”

“And you let me go this long without congratulating you?” Yuri shakes his head. “I could’ve baked you a cake.”

The corner of Otabek’s lip twitches, like he’s holding back a grin. “I actually can’t tell if you’re joking right now.”

“Why not? I bet you like that kind of sappy shit.”

Otabek doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t refute his claim either.

“I prefer to keep it without too much fuss,” he says.

“Yeah, but I’m your _friend_. I’m supposed to celebrate with you.” Yuri thinks for a moment. “I have an idea.”

“I have the foreboding sense that I shouldn’t listen to you.”

Yuri ignores him.

“We’ll celebrate tonight instead,” he declares.

“Or not,” says Otabek. “Not is also an option.”

“But _Ota_ bek.” Yuri drapes himself over the cushions in a dramatic pose. “It’s been ages since I had any fun.”

“What do you suggest?”

“You’re old enough to buy alcohol now,” he says. “Let’s go out.”

“ _No_. Your grandfather will think poorly of me if I deliver you to him hungover in the morning.” Otabek turns away. “Besides, I don’t drink.”

“Why? Because you’re too boring?”

“I was raised in a Muslim household,” he says. “Alcohol is something I’ve never had much exposure to, and for now I’d like to keep it that way.”

Yuri sits upright again. “I didn’t know.”

“There’s no reason you should have.”

“Are you Muslim too?”

Otabek tilts his head slightly, considering. “That’s a complicated question. Right now I’m hardly practicing. I’m always in class on Fridays instead of visiting the mosque, and some of the more fundamentalist religious interpretations are…not to my taste.”

Yuri thinks about this for a moment. “But it’s important to you.”

“It’s a part of me, which is almost the same thing.”

And Yuri isn’t quite sure he knows what he means, but he nods anyway.

“I’m sorry,” says Otabek. “I don’t mean to spoil your celebration plans.”

“Hey, it’s _your_ birthday. We’ll figure something else out.”

Otabek seems satisfied with that. He joins Yuri on the couch and begins straightening some of the papers on the coffee table. Yuri sneaks a peek at them. They’re mostly boring—an old class assignment, some pamphlet on a new workout regimen, a half-completed employment license for people with student visas—but one in particular catches his eye. He snatches it out of Otabek’s hands.

“Is this a letter from the Mariinsky Ballet? Why do you have that?”

Otabek grabs it back. “No reason.”

“It is.” Yuri tries to get a closer look, and Otabek turns away from him, but not before he catches a glimpse of the opening line. “And it’s addressed to you personally. What does the Mariinsky Ballet want with you?”

“It’s nothing,” says Otabek. “Hey, I know. When we buy groceries later I’ll pick up some ingredients so we can make a cake.”

“Don’t think you’re getting out of this so easily. You can’t change the subject on me.”

“I can and I will,” he murmurs.

“Otabek—

“Can you please just drop it?”

It’s the closest he’s ever come to snapping at him. Yuri stares at him, mouth agape, and with some effort Otabek forces his face back to its usual calm.

“I apologize,” he says. “I just—I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“Will you want to talk about it later?” Yuri asks, knowing that he’s probably pushing his luck, but Otabek seems suddenly too tired for anger.

“Not really,” he admits, “but I promise I will. Just…not now.”

Yuri releases his breath and nods once. “Okay.”

He lets it go because Otabek has made him a promise, and so far in their acquaintance he’s never known Otabek Altin to break a promise.

They lapse into a rather tense silence after that, both still a little raw and stubbornly pretending otherwise. Otabek continues his prior task of rearranging the contents of the table, as if his agitated fingers are his inner turmoil’s only outward manifestation. Yuri knows he’ll have to be the one to speak first, to make things right between them again.

“If we go grocery shopping now,” he says, “I’ll bake you that cake.”

“You’ll be the ruination of my figure,” says Otabek, but he’s doing that almost-smile thing, so Yuri knows he’s teasing.

“We’re on holiday, we can afford to eat some damn cake.”

“As long as you’re the one who prepares it.”

“See, I told you,” says Yuri. “You’re a sap.”

“You’re the one who offered,” says Otabek, and Yuri closes his mouth, because he really has no comeback to that.

“Let’s just go.”

They walk to a corner store a few blocks away. Otabek grabs a basket and wanders between the shelves, plucking off a box of protein powder here or some canned soup there. He leaves Yuri in charge of finding the ingredients for the cake while he sorts through the produce.

Yuri spent the entire walk pondering what to make. He’s just now settled on metovik, honey cake, which might be a little ambitious because he’s never actually made one before, but he wants to do something special in honor of Otabek’s birthday, and he thinks he remembers his grandfather’s recipe. He scans the shelves. _Baking soda, flour, sugar. Now eggs and butter and honey, of course, and sour cream for the frosting._ He scoops everything into his arms, hoping it’s enough, and marches over to the produce aisle to dump it all in Otabek’s basket.

His friend peers at the ingredients and makes no comment.

“You’re not allergic or anything,” Yuri says, suddenly concerned.

“No,” Otabek assures him. “Whatever you make will be great.”

He certainly hopes so.

He waits a while after they get back before he starts. They have to eat lunch first—sandwiches, because it’s easy—and then they get locked in a standoff during a long and heated game of cards. Yuri cheats mercilessly, and accuses Otabek of doing the same when he wins.

It’s late afternoon when he banishes Otabek from the kitchen and gets down to business. Yuri lays out all of the ingredients and cracks his knuckles. It’s time to begin.

He starts by melting the sugar and the honey and the butter together, the way he remembers seeing his grandfather do for New Year’s or another special occasion. He beats the eggs in a separate bowl, then whisks them into the main mixture along with the baking soda. Once he’s satisfied there are no lumps, he folds the flour in slowly with a spatula. The cake is supposed to have eight layers inside, so he cuts the dough into eight equal pieces and sprinkles some of the remaining flour onto the countertop next to him so he can flatten them.

Otabek pokes his head around the corner. “Can I come in?”

“No.” Yuri doesn’t look up from his work. “It isn’t ready yet.”

While the oven is preheating he begins to roll the pieces into thin circles. He isn’t sure how wide they’re supposed to be, but he makes the best approximation he can, putting the leftover scraps to the side for the time being. After that, he puts the circles in to bake.

Otabek is back, squinting through the little window in the oven door.

“That doesn’t look like a cake.”

Yuri swats his face away. “That’s because it’s not done. Now go back out there like I told you, or I’ll kick you out myself.

“I’m going, I’m going.”

Yuri shakes his head and returns to his work.

The layers and the scraps are almost done, which means it’s time to start in on the frosting. He whisks the sour cream and the powdered sugar together, then adds the whipped cream to the mixture. It’s not as good as his grandfather would have done, but he sets that thought aside as he takes the dough out of the oven, concentrating on assembling the cake.

Carefully he spreads frosting on each of the layers, using it to stick them together to form a base that leans only slightly to one side. Next he covers the outside of the cake with the remaining frosting. With that finished, he turns his attention to the leftover scraps of dough.

He uses the rolling pin to crush them into crumbs, amassing a nice pile. All that’s left to do now is dust the cake with the crumbs and his work is complete. He stands back to admire his efforts.

It’s a little rough around the edges. The crumbs aren’t very evenly distributed, and the whole thing gives an impression a bit like the Tower of Pisa. Still, for a first attempt he thinks it looks pretty good.

“Is it ready now?” Otabek stops when he sees the cake on the counter. “Wow, Yuri. That looks amazing.”

“I know,” he says, more than a little proudly, but he can’t keep his ears from burning at the praise. “It has to go in the refrigerator before we can eat it, to let some of the cream soak in. Technically it’s best left in there overnight, but I’m not waiting that long.”

“We can go to dinner in the meantime,” says Otabek.

Even though it’s his birthday, he insists on treating them both, in spite of Yuri’s protests.

“It’s my way of thanking you,” he says, and Yuri doesn’t point out that really he should be the one thanking Otabek for letting him stay the night. He supposes if he really wants to celebrate Otabek’s birthday, he should let him have what he wants.

They put on some old movie when they get back and sit on the couch together to watch it. Halfway through Yuri gets up and cuts the cake, bringing out a sizeable slice for each of them.

“Happy birthday, Otabek.”

The muted light of the lamp beside them casts a warm glow around him, propped up on the cushions with his plate suspended delicately in one hand. His eyes are so soft, so _fond_ , that it gives Yuri’s stomach a funny twinge. His whole head suddenly feels as though it’s buzzing.

“Thank you, Yuri.”

They stare at each other, the film still running on the screen across from them forgotten in the heat of the moment.

“We should eat,” Yuri mumbles, tearing away from Otabek’s gaze.

The cake might not look as nice as his grandfather’s, but it tastes just as good. The expression on Otabek’s face when he takes his first bite makes the whole ordeal worth it.

Their movie comes to an end, so they start another one, plates and silverware discarded at the edge of the coffee table. Yuri tucks his feet up underneath him and yawns.

When they’re about ten minutes in he curls up against Otabek’s side, and after a moment he tentatively rests his head on his shoulder. Otabek’s eyes flicker down to him briefly, curious but not concerned, and then back to the TV. Yuri closes his eyes.

After a while, Otabek’s fingers find their way to his hair, absently combing through it in slow, gentle strokes. Yuri doesn’t move, afraid he’ll stop.

Eventually he feels himself drifting off, brought back to semi-consciousness by the sudden absence of Otabek’s shoulder beneath him. He grunts, stretching out a fist to punch him with eyes still half shut, but Otabek is standing now and he ends up hitting the air.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

Yuri allows himself to be led into the other room, burying himself beneath the covers without so much as changing clothes.

“G’night, Otabek.”

The other boy reaches down to brush his hair out of his face, settling the blankets around him more comfortably.

“Good night, Yuri.”

There’s something a little sad in his voice, but somewhere beneath that Yuri thinks he hears a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. We made it to winter break (even if I’m a day late). As the characters are on holiday, I too will be taking a short hiatus, to catch up on writing this while also juggling coursework as my own school year starts up again. I’ll be back to my regularly-scheduled updates on Monday the 23rd of January. I very much appreciate your patience in the meantime, and thank you so much for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to have this out earlier today, but my life has been kinda hectic lately and it turns out working weekends when I’m not in class has (shockingly) had an impact. For the time being, I’m moving updates to every Monday, in the hopes that I can avoid having to give excuses like the one above. There will probably be about six more chapters of this, depending on how the arc pans out, but we’ll see how it goes. As ever, thank you all so much for your continued support! You were all so sweet about the hiatus and I truly appreciate it.

As Yuuri’s second semester at the Academy begins, he knows it’s time for him to get serious.

Not that he wasn’t serious before—of all the things he’s been accused of in life, being too serious definitely ranks on the list—but over the course of his first semester he was…preoccupied, at the very least. It’s only natural. Living in a new country, with new people, interacting every day in a language that isn’t his own, that takes some adjustment. But he’s done adjusting now. It’s time to do what he set out for.

All easier said than done, of course.

Victor still insists on being a distraction, which other than dancing rings around the other students seems to be his primary function in life, and when he and Yuuri are not busy brushing hands in passing and studiously ignoring it afterwards, Phichit will drag his roommate off on another sightseeing mission, or pester him to spend more time making friends.

“I _have_ friends,” Yuuri insists, a little indignantly. “I have you, and Leo and Guang-Hong. And Victor.”

“This is true,” says Phichit, “but I’m your roommate, and Victor doesn’t count.”

Yuuri starts to object, but Phichit steamrolls past him.

“And as for Leo and Guang-Hong, well, I hate to break this to you, but I pay them to hang out with you. And me. They’re in this whole business purely for the money.”

Yuuri’s lips twitch into half a grin. “I can’t believe I never noticed.”

“In your defense, they are extraordinarily good at hiding it. I always told them dance was a waste of their talents. They should be at theater school instead.”

For all the teasing, Yuuri has to indulge at least _some_ of Phichit’s ideas (or schemes, which most of the time is a better descriptor). They are friends, after all, and sometimes he even enjoys it.

And at least for the moment, there’s only one thing in particular he needs to be serious about.

“You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Yuuri slings his bag over his shoulder, following Phichit through the door and locking it behind them. Their morning trudge is more subdued than usual today. Today, they will face their midterm evaluation, the final showcase before spots for the gala are chosen.

Victor has been oddly quiet about it. The rest of the school can’t seem to drop the subject, but all Yuuri has managed to get out of Victor is that he will be choreographing one of the pieces as his senior thesis. He won’t say anything else.

They take a turn onto a different path than their ordinary route leads them, heading instead in the direction of the stately columned façade on the hill. The auditorium is the architectural centerpiece of the Academy, keeping watch over the handful of small buildings scattered at its base, connected by a jumble of trails and open grassy lawns that become overrun with students during the warmer months. Years ago the Moscow International Ballet was fortunate enough to secure an entire city block for their own use, which they put to purpose in the construction of the Upper School. The whole thing is set up like an inclined plane—at the top, the performance hall looms, while lower down a bank of studios line the street on one side, with the dormitory and academic center stationed opposite. At the very bottom of the hill, rather than facing in towards the quad like everything else, the administrative office looks out on the pavement, its signpost visible for the rest of the world to see: _l’Academie du ballet international de Moscou_. Yuuri remembers standing before those words, his first day here. It seems so long ago now.

This morning his destination is not Lilia Baranovskaya’s office, nor her classroom, though as ever she will be in command of the day’s proceedings. He’s never actually been inside the Academy auditorium before, and the thought of completing an exam in an unfamiliar performance space makes him nervous. More than nervous, really. Terrified would probably be a more accurate description.

Phichit claps him on the back, startling him out of his thoughts.

“Tell you what,” he says, “if we get through this, I’ll let you show me how to make that pork cutlet bowl thing you like.”

Yuuri nods, and they ascend the steps together, lining up with the other students already amassed in the foyer.

The first- through third-years all had their evaluations the day before. Now it’s time for the upperclassmen to show their skill.

They are organized into sections alphabetically and dismissed to wait and warm-up in the antechamber. In turns, they will be given the choreography and dance their evaluation in groups of four in front of a panel of staff members. Aside from the intimidation of putting himself on display for his teachers, that last part provides some small comfort. Yuuri won’t have to be on that stage alone.

The list is divided according to Romanized surname, which means Yuuri will fall somewhere in the middle. Phichit is one of the first to go, with an anxious (though determined) smile topping off his usual earnest cheer. Without him there’s no one to take the edge off the uneasy silence, and Yuuri resolves to set about his stretches.

Slowly the group begins to dwindle. Yuuri doesn’t know where the other dancers go once they’re finished—“elsewhere” is the only vague response he’s received, a precautionary measure so that the students don’t share the content of the exams with one another. He hopes they’re not all waiting in the rows of the auditorium, ready to watch him perform.

He wishes Victor was here. The fifth-years are holed up in their own separate area, somewhere in the underbelly of practice halls and dressing rooms. If Victor was here, Yuuri thinks, his previously established qualities as a distraction might actually prove useful.

He finishes warming up and begins to pace, shoes slung over his shoulder, trying not to think about anything (or, failing that, anything related to the dread swirling in his stomach). An attendant slips through the stage door, clipboard in hand, and the remaining students go still. It’s time for the next batch.

“Yuuri Katsuki,” the attendant reads, the first name off her list, and his stomach drops.

 _You can do this_ , assures a voice in his head, the echo of words someone said to him earlier—Victor, maybe, or perhaps Phichit. His own attempt at them is a weak imitation.

He reminds himself to breathe—and breathe slowly, assuredly. It doesn’t help his nerves but it does clear his head a little. He steps through the door behind the attendant, his other three classmates following suit.

The footlights are bright in his eyes, obscuring the figures sitting at the tables lined up in the shadows of the third row, though he thinks he catches a glimpse of Madame Baranovskaya somewhere near the center. Yakov Feltsman, deputy headmaster and instructor of Yuuri’s advanced technique class, stands at the front of the stage, wearing his usual scowl.

“I will dance the choreography for you once,” he says. “You will have the opportunity to go over it with me twice. You will then be given five minutes to prepare yourself in whatever manner you deem necessary. After that, the examination will begin.

Yuuri takes another deep breath. _I can do this_ , he thinks. _This is what I have been trained for._

The examinations held at the end of every year and the midterm evaluation take two very different forms. The end of year exams, from what Yuuri has gathered, are very similar to the audition process for enrolling at the Academy.

To get a spot, international students choreograph a five-minute sample of their work and submit a video of it to the school for consideration. Those selected for a callback will travel to Moscow for one weekend over the summer, to be tested in a variety of dance styles and technique, and additionally undergo a medical examination to assess physical potential. The medical exams are still held at the end of every year, and in order to get a cumulative view of a student’s progress, many subject areas are tested over several days.

For the midterm, everything is riding on these few minutes of performance.

More deep breaths. Focus, that’s what he needs right now. He tries to tune out the other thoughts crowding his head and let his attention fall on Yakov alone. He’s turned on the music now, posture stiff and poised, waiting.

The choreography he demonstrates doesn’t last very long, but it’s nothing easy, either. There’s a jeté entrelacé that has Yuuri worried, followed by a grand assemblé en tournant. Most of the individual components do not seem unduly difficult by themselves, but to put them together in this order, and at such a fastidious pace, feels relentless. The dread in Yuuri’s stomach is quarreling to be known.

The four students plus Yakov dance through the piece once. Yuuri slips up halfway through and nearly falls flat on his back, but he stops himself just in time. The second round he’s managed to regain some of his composure, but he’s concentrating so hard on not stumbling that his efforts are lackluster, and by the end he’s just slightly offbeat. _This is bad_ , he thinks, a panicky cold seeping through his joints.

Yakov calls the start of the five minutes. Yuuri drops to a seat, putting his head in his hands. _I can do this_ , he tries, _I can do this_.

“Your five minutes are up.”

 _So soon._ Yuuri is struggling valiantly to keep himself from despair. He casts his mind around for something, anything, that might calm him.

As the music starts and they take their positions, he imagines he’s back at the studio late some afternoon or evening, some time when they both should be doing other things. Both, because Victor is here—they’ve just finished rehearsing their pas de deux, and now Yuuri has something to show him.

 _I am dancing for Victor_ , he thinks, and imagines that Victor is out there in the audience, somewhere, is the only other person in this entire building. _See what I can do._

He closes his eyes. It’s unorthodox, and perhaps that will count against him, but for the moment he shuts out the sight of the other dancers around him, the muddy figures of the teachers in the row ahead. He blocks out everything but the music, lets it fill his bones, pour out of his fingertips. _Victor_ , he thinks, _have I reached you?_

In the end, he doesn’t know how well it went. He tries to recall what specifically he may have done or not done correctly, but only comes up with a blur. The other students aren’t casting him looks of pity as they walk out, back to the dormitory to get on with their day, so he can’t have performed too poorly. But he thinks he catches one of them glance at him, an odd expression on his face, before he realizes Yuuri has noticed and his gaze skitters away.

“How’d you do?” Phichit asks when he gets in, and Yuuri shrugs.

“We’ll see.”

That afternoon, because classes have been cancelled for the day, they go to the supermarket for approximations of the usual katsudon ingredients, and Yuuri guides Phichit through the customary cooking process. It isn’t his mother’s, but it’ll serve.

One week later, the entire school is called together for a meeting in the auditorium before their morning lessons.

“I would like to congratulate you on passing your midterm evaluations.”

Madame Baranovskaya stares out at them all, standing at attention atop the stage, and though her face is as stern as ever Yuuri thinks he detects the briefest hint of pride for her students behind her eyes.

“Whether or not your talents will be showcased in the upcoming Exhibition Gala, know that you have proven your quality simply by making it this far.” She grants them a wry, fleeting half-smile, and then she’s all business again.

“Without further ado,” she says, “I shall read out the list of gala participants.”

Yuuri waits with baited breath as she goes through the first-years (there are only a handful of those), and then the second-years (a handful more), and then the third (almost everyone). He’s leaning forward in his seat by the time she makes it to his class, heart in his throat, too intent to care about what he must look like.

His name is not called.

Yuuri grits his teeth, furiously trying to bite back the tears that threaten to squeeze their way out of his eyes. It’s stupid to let himself get so upset. Even if he didn’t get a part. Even if he’s the only fourth-year in the entire place not to.

He forces a few deep, slow breaths, hoping to calm his mind a little. There’s a way through this, even if he can’t see it right now. He can plead his case with Madame Baranovskaya, ask what he did wrong, beg if he has to. And if none of that works, well— _I can face that when it comes_.

The headmistress has finished reading the list of fifth-years and their assigned parts. At least half of them are working as choreographers like Victor, directing their own pieces so they can put it on their resume before they graduate. There’s some murmuring amongst the crowd, celebration and lamentation alike, angry commiseration from spurned junior classmates, suppressed by a cough from Madame Baranovskaya.

“Plisetsky and Katsuki,” she says. “Please see me after this meeting is adjourned.”

Some of Yuuri’s disappointment fades, replaced by a fledgling scrap of hope, and a more substantial bit of curiosity.

“Those whose names and roles have been called will begin rehearsal after class next week.” Madame Baranovskaya pauses a moment. “You are dismissed.”

The students stand, jostling their way out of the auditorium. Yuuri stumbles his way through to the stage, hesitantly approaching the headmistress. Yuri Plisetsky beats him there, having made liberal use of his elbows.

“There has been a…special task set aside for both of you,” says Madame Baranovskaya. “I did not inform the crowd because your choreographer has said he wishes for the nature of his project to remain a secret, for the time being.”

Yuri scowls. “Our choreographer?”

“I will let him tell you himself.”

Before either of them can demand a proper explanation, she melts into the crowd.

“Great,” Yuri mutters. “This is exactly what I needed.”

 _Me too_ , Yuuri thinks, though with a touch less sarcasm. “Special task” sounds suspicious, but promising too. Maybe there’s hope for him yet.

“Excellent. Just the people I’ve been looking for.”

A hand claps itself firmly around Yuuri’s shoulder. Next to him, Yuri stomps on the foot of the offender, wriggling out of his grasp.

“Victor,” he growls. “I should’ve known _you’d_ be behind this.”

“I’m offended that you would use such a derisive tone to describe my involvement.”

“Good.”

“Um, Victor,” says Yuuri, “what exactly is going on?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Victor smiles, tweaking his nose affectionately. “You, Yuuri, along with Yurio here, are the stars of my senior project!”

“That is _not_ my name.”

“It’s the name Yuuri’s sister so kindly made up for you after you walked in on our Skype call with her.”

“Not the worst thing I could’ve walked in on,” he mutters.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Is this why you didn’t want the hag to announce the project in front of everyone?” Yuri jabs him in the chest. “Because if I’d known you were behind all this, I would’ve walked out.”

“Fortunately for us all,” says Victor, “the execution of the gala does not cater to the conceits of teenagers.”

“Try me.”

“Please,” Yuuri interrupts, turning to Victor, “will you just tell us what this project of yours is?”

“Certainly.” His eyes get that thoughtful faraway look, the one that always seems almost comedic for its drama, but that is never anything but genuine. “For my senior thesis, I am choreographing a piece that centers around two variations on the theme of love. The variations will use different arrangements of the same song to portray two of the many types of love: agape, which is unconditional love, and eros, sexual love. You will each be performing one of these pieces.”

Yuri is unimpressed. “Why do I have to put up with your mushy _love_ bullshit?”

“Because,” says Victor, “I asked for both of you _specifically_. So you are going to work with me on this or so help me Yurio I will ask Lilia to pull your other piece.”

“My name. Is not. _Yurio_.”

“And this will be performed at the gala?” Yuuri asks.

Victor nods. “The final act of the show. You two will be the closing number, which is why it’s imperative that you share as little information about this as possible. I want it to be a surprise.”

“Some surprise,” Yuri scoffs. “What’s so special about your thesis that it gets to be last?”

“Do you really care, as long as you get to be part of it?”

“No,” he admits. “But only if you make me look good in front of the talent scouts.”

“Deal,” says Victor. “I’ll give you both a program the world won’t forget in a hurry.”

Yuuri isn’t quite sure how to feel. In the past few minutes he’s gone from total discouragement to hesitant elation, and he has to remind himself to be practical about the situation. Victor promising to choreograph a stellar piece for each of them is one thing, but he can’t go getting ahead of himself. He’ll have to work a lot harder to be worthy of a spot in the gala finale.

 _At least I’m no longer the only fourth-year without a part_ , he thinks, and he can’t help the wave of relief that washes over him.

“We can discuss this more later,” says Victor. “For now, I just need to know that you’re both in.”

“You can count on me,” Yuuri says. Victor looks expectantly at Yurio.

“Fine,” he grumbles, “but you’d better not go back on your word.”

“I swear on it.” Victor beams at them both, clapping his hands together. “I shall expect you in the studio tomorrow evening for our first rehearsal. Don’t worry, I’ve asked Minako to cancel your pointe lesson. You can arrive at the same time and place you normally would.” He makes to leave, then turns back around. “Oh, and don’t forget your pointe shoes.”

Yuri shakes his head. “Why do I feel like I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into.”

“Because you don’t.” Yuuri smiles at him. “But it looks like we’re going to find out soon enough.”

“Lord help us.”

* * *

After the gala positions are distributed, Yuri hurries to catch up with Otabek, who is walking off to the side of the path ahead by himself. They make their way to one of the studio buildings together.

“So,” Yuri says, “you and me. Dancing a pas de deux. Together.”

Neither Otabek’s footsteps nor his expression falter. “Not an abnormal occurrence, at this point.”

“What do you think?”

“I think it will be interesting,” he says, which is vague and unhelpful.

Yuri nudges him. “Are you so disdainful of my company?”

“Never that,” Otabek assures him, straight-faced, but his eyes sparkle. He pulls open the front door, and they sequester themselves in an empty classroom.

“We have class soon,” says Yuri.

“Yes,” Otabek agrees.

“We should go attend to that.”

“Probably.”

Neither of them moves.

“I will be glad to dance with you,” says Otabek quietly.

“Diana and Actaeon,” says Yuri. “Agrippina Vaganova’s famous divertissement. And hey, speaking of Vaganova…”

“I know exactly where you’re going with this.”

“Good. Then let’s discuss.”

“Perhaps later, when we don’t have class.”

“I’m not going to let you brush me off this time,” Yuri says, planting his feet firmly and glaring accusingly at Otabek. “You promised.”

He doesn’t bother to disguise the weariness in his sigh. “I suppose I did.”

“So you’ll tell me?”

“I will.”

Yuri crosses his arms. “Then you’d better get started.”

Slowly, Otabek draws the letter out of his pocket and unfolds it. He begins to read, though his eyes barely glance at the paper.

“ _Dear Mr. Altin:_

“ _We are writing to inform you of our interest regarding your future candidacy for a position as a full-time member of our company_.”

“Holy sh—

“ _While spots with the company remain extremely limited, after having the opportunity to witness your performance in _La Bayadère_ by the Almaty Repertory Ballet this past summer, we feel you may make a viable candidate for employment._ ”

“Why didn’t you—

“I’m not done yet. _This spring, as in previous years, we are sending several scouts to the Moscow International Ballet Academy’s exhibition gala. They have been instructed to pay special attention to your performance, should you give one. I look forward to any future business arrangement we may reach. Yours sincerely, Valery Gergiev: the Mariinsky Ballet, artistic director_.”

With that he folds the note away crisply and gives Yuri a resigned nod, signaling that he may now continue his outburst.

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“I didn’t know how to.”

“That’s easy.” Yuri kind of wants to punch him. “You say ‘hey, one of the most prestigious ballet companies in the world wants to recruit me, just thought you should know.’”

“That is not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

Otabek lapses into one of his silences, and Yuri does shove him, though not hard. Their temperaments are too much at odds today—his impatience is frenetic, and whatever problems Otabek has with the letter have caused him to retreat further into himself.

“I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me,” says Yuri.

“How do you know you can help?” But some of the tension goes out of Otabek’s jaw. “I’m still trying to grasp the fact that this is real.”

“And why shouldn’t it be?”

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “I’m not…naturally talented at ballet. Not like you, anyway. I’ve worked hard my whole life to make up for that, but it’s not as if I can ignore the truth.”

“The truth.” Yuri definitely wants to punch him this time. “The truth, Beka, is that you’re an idiot.”

“Beka.” Otabek forms the word carefully, a faint smile crossing his lips for the first time since they started this conversation. “It’s been a while since anyone called me that.”

“Is that really the part you want to focus on,” Yuri says, to cover the fact that he’s blushing furiously.

“Alright. Tell me why I’m an idiot.”

“You’re a good dancer, no matter what you say. I wouldn’t work with you otherwise.”

“It’s rather ironic,” says Otabek. “Vaganova wouldn’t have me, and now their professional sponsor has sent a letter to court me.”

“Because you _deserve_ it.”

“Because after all these years someone noticed what I was doing and decided, on a whim, that they liked it.”

His voice is as calm as ever, speaking his self-deprecation with a jarring sense of assurance. He doesn’t seem upset about the nature of his claims, not like Katsuki, who Yuri has overheard crying on at least one occasion. With Otabek it all churns below the surface, and it takes time to parcel out any of the rare clues that trickle through.

It’s different when he’s dancing. He’s freer, less reserved, like whatever strictures he has in place crumble just a little, just for the moment, and something of the Otabek within shines through. In truth, Yuri envies him for it. He can’t recall ever experiencing that kind of serenity, not even through ballet.

“Otabek,” he asks, “how would you feel about performing with the Mariinsky?”

He blinks, caught off-guard by the question. “At this point I don’t think it’s a very likely possibility.”

“But if you did, how would you feel about it?”

“Grateful, I suppose.”

“That’s not a real feeling.”

“Is too.”

“It is _not_. Not in this scenario, anyway.”

“What do you want me to say?” There’s something unpleasant in his voice, not quite mocking but edging in that direction. “My dream as a classically trained ballet dancer is to drop out and become a modernist, and my refusal to join with the company that once spurned me is symbolic of my disregard for tradition.”

“Your sarcasm is touching.”

“I’m sorry, Yuri. It’s just—I don’t actually know how to feel about any of this. It’s been…a shock.”

“To put it mildly.” Yuri places a tentative hand on his shoulder. “There’s no one way you have to feel about this. I mean, most people would be happy, but—

“I am,” says Otabek. “Happy. A professional ballet company has taken an interest in me. Of course I’m happy.”

“You have a solid chance at a real job when you graduate now. Stability and prestige, and all the rest.”

“It’s quite unlikely.”

“Not as unlikely as you think.”

“Maybe. It’s true, that I could have stability with the Mariinsky, and more.”

“And is that what you want?”

“It has to be.” Otabek runs an agitated hand through his hair. “It would be foolish of me to discard what could be the opportunity of a lifetime.”

Yuri glares at him. “But is it an opportunity you _want_?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want.”

There’s a hollow note in his voice that Yuri has never heard before. It scares him, to hear Otabek sound defeated. He wants to contradict him, but there’s a biting bit of truth to his words. It’s not as if either of them has the luxury to turn down the Mariinsky Ballet.

“They won’t choose me.” Otabek is as still as ever, but for the fingers playing with the strap of his bag. “So this whole argument doesn’t matter either.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I know enough not to get my hopes up.” He pauses. “Such as they are. Perhaps it’s better this way.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“Yuri.” There’s another almost-smile, but this time it’s exasperated. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m fine.”

Yuri opens his mouth, closes it, and then frowns again.

“You’re a terribly frustrating person to help,” he says.

“And you’re not nearly as good at this whole ‘angsty teenager’ act as you think.”

“It is not an _act_. And stop distracting me from the point!”

“I have to go to class, Yuri.”

Yuri watches him leave. Otabek pauses in the doorway, turning his head just slightly.

“I think it’s cruel, you know,” he says, like he’s commenting on the weather. “For them to send out letters like this to half the impressionable kids in the business when it doesn’t mean anything. They probably have a whole stack of them waiting.”

Yuri doesn’t know enough about it to contradict him, but he can’t find it in himself to buy into Otabek’s pessimism, either. Not all of it. Maybe he’s only in denial.

During the next few days, he thinks over what he has to do. He realizes two things very quickly—first, that Otabek is too stubborn to do anything about his emotions or his impending future, and second, that performing his duet with Yuri will get him nowhere. It’s a while before they get more than five minutes alone together, and that gives him enough time to come up with a plan.

He finally catches Otabek coming out of the studio one morning and grabs his arm, dragging him into a quiet room before he can protest.

“So.” Otabek folds his arms, giving him the _I know there’s something you want to talk to me about_ look. Yuri squares his shoulders, steeling himself.

“I can’t dance as Diana with you,” he says. “I’ll go to Madame Baranovskaya tomorrow and plead our case. She likes me, maybe she’ll listen.”

“Wait.” Yuri wants to leave it there and go before either of them has to take any further damage, but Otabek sticks an arm out, blocking his exit. “What are you saying?”

Yuri can’t quite meet his eye.

“It won’t do you any favors, in the view of the talent scouts, for us to perform a duet of lovers.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“And you’ll want something that better showcases your strengths anyway, maybe a variation instead of a pas de deux.”

“ _Yuri._ ”

“What?”

He bites his lip, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “I want to dance that piece with you. Not with anyone else, and not any _thing_ else either.”

“Oh.” Yuri is quiet a moment. “Well, it makes no difference. We have to focus on what’s best for your career.”

“What will be best for my career,” says Otabek, “is if I can give the audience a performance I am invested in, not something technically brilliant but halfhearted overall.”

“And the fact that you’ll be dancing with a male ballerina?”

“The world is changing. Maybe these things aren’t so set in stone as they used to be.”

It could be he’s right, but it’s wishful thinking at best, and that’s something Yuri knows Otabek can’t afford, not with his future on the line.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and shoves Otabek’s arm out of the way. Otabek grabs hold of his sweatshirt, tugging him back, and Yuri turns to him, surprised, but not as surprised as Otabek himself looks.

“Yura,” he says, and then, “please.” A brief struggle plays across his face, like he’s trying to say more, but ultimately he can’t find the words.

Yuri swallows something thick and unpleasant welling up in his throat. His eyes skirt away from the intensity of Otabek’s gaze, but he can still feel it burning there, and he’s uncomfortably aware of the hand at his lower back—Otabek hasn’t let go of his sweatshirt. The distance between them is excruciating.

“Goodbye, Beka,” he whispers, and he has to work to keep his chin up as he marches to the door.

As soon as he’s through it, he takes off running.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for all the people who have been asking for more Mila/Sara in the comments <3

Coming home to find Anya a vindictive mess on their floor is not one of Mila’s usual plans for a Friday evening.

She throws her coat on top of her desk and sighs a little, then tosses some grounds in the coffee pot and prepares herself for a long night. She fires off a quick text to Sara— _sorry I can’t do tonight, my roommate isn’t feeling well_ —and pours two mugs. She hands one to Anya and waits.

“It’s Georgi,” Anya says, and really, Mila should have known Georgi would be the cause of all this. She sighs again, a little heavier this time.

“You don’t have to put up with this if you don’t want to.”

“No, go ahead. I’m listening.”

The gist of the issue seems to be that a few hours prior Anya finally decided to call it quits with her former partner, who predictably is not taking it well.

“He’s called me five times already,” Anya says. “God, he’s just so _clingy_. This is exactly why I broke up with him.”

“He’s been that way as long as I can remember,” says Mila. “I believe the polite term is ‘passionate.’”

Anya snorts. “Deluded, more like.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “And I know it’s all well-intentioned, but he really needs to learn when to let go.”

“Georgi is like Victor,” Mila says. “They both get a little carried away when they’re in love.”

“At least Victor’s affections are mostly harmless. I haven’t known either of them as long as you, but he’s always seemed the more benign of the two.”

“In some ways, perhaps, but he can be his own variety of unreasonable at times. It drives everyone crazy.”

Anya casts her a calculating look. “You know Victor quite well, don’t you?”

“Sort of.” Mila shrugs. “We grew up dancing together, but I wouldn’t say I know him better than certain other people.”

“But you’re…close.”

“Oh,” says Mila, catching Anya’s point, and she has to laugh. “Not in _that_ way. God no. There are many reasons why Victor and I could never date.”

“Sorry,” says Anya, grinning. “I couldn’t resist the question. You do talk about him more than any other guy, aside from Yuri, and forgive me for thinking that he’s entirely out of the question.”

“You’re right about that,” says Mila. “Yuri is too much like an annoying younger brother. And Victor…Victor’s a brother to me as well. Besides, I’m not his type.”

“Oh? And what is Victor’s type?”

A glasses-wearing Japanese exchange student by the name of Yuuri Katsuki, Mila expects, but she doesn’t want to disappoint Anya’s hopes.

“Perhaps _he_ is not my type,” she supplies instead, and they leave the subject there.

They’re on their second cup of coffee when Mila’s phone rings. She hesitates a moment before picking it up, but Anya waves her on, and her heart gives a funny jolt when she glances at the screen. _Incoming call from Sara Crispino._

“Hello?”

“Hey.” Sara’s voice is tired, tentative in a way that’s unfamiliar. “I know you said you had stuff going on with your roommate, but…could I come over?”

“Yeah,” says Mila, “of course you can come.”

Anya shoots her a confused look, and she mouths _I’ll explain after_.

“Is there some reason in particular?” she asks. “I mean, do you want to dance, or…”

“I just need to get away for a bit.”

“Okay,” says Mila, already reaching with one hand to put new grounds in the coffee pot. “Knock when you get here and I’ll let you in.”

“Your room?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

Mila hangs up, turning apologetically to Anya. “Sorry, that was my friend Sara.”

“Sara Crispino?” Anya raises her eyebrows. “How long have you two been hanging around each other?”

“Since last semester,” Mila says, and finds her face is flushing. She ducks her head.

“And she’s coming here?”

“If that’s alright.”

Anya shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. She can commiserate with us.”

There’s a knock on the door, and Mila answers it.

“Thanks for doing this,” says Sara. “I know you had other plans this evening.”

“I’m the one who canceled on you.” Mila motions her inside, and Anya gives her a nod from the floor.

“Sara.”

“Anya.” Sara drops her bag by her feet and sits. “What’s this Mila tells me about her roommate not feeling well?”

“You know Georgi, the fifth-year?”

“You mean your boyfriend?”

Anya makes a face. “Not anymore.”

“I see.”

“It’s not that I’m upset about it,” she says, “since I’m the one who ended things. I just…”

Sara nods. “It seems we’re all having boy troubles tonight.”

“Not me,” Mila declares, sprawling between them. “I am most happily boy-free.”

Sara looks her up and down, an impish glint in her eyes. “I’m glad.”

An involuntary shiver runs down Mila’s spine at her tone.

“I have coffee,” she says, jumping up, and busies herself with pouring Sara a mug. Their fingers touch when she hands it off, and she nearly drops it.

“Careful.” Sara gently lifts the cup out of her grasp. “It’s hot.”

“I’m the one who should be telling you that,” Mila mutters, face now bright red.

“As long as you’re up…”

Anya holds out her mug and Mila tops her off, grateful for the distraction. Her roommate downs her drink in several gulps and leans back.

“So Sara. What kind of boy troubles bring you here on this decidedly _not_ fine evening?”

“My brother was being insufferable,” she says. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Anya spreads her arms, gesturing broadly at the cluttered space around them. “We may as well make a party of it.”

“I like that idea,” says Mila. “A night in to hang out, just the three of us.”

“I like that idea too,” Sara says, and leans her head against Mila’s shoulder.

They put in a DVD of some terrible Russian soap opera Anya likes and talk over it. Mila bemoans some rehearsal difficulties she’s been having with her variation for the spring gala, and Anya complains about Georgi.

“At least you’re allowed to date,” Sara says. “My brother won’t let any boys come near me.”

“Haven’t you told him that’s like, super creepy?”

“I’ve tried. He doesn’t listen well.”

Anya gives Sara’s forehead a poke. “Then you need to make him.”

Mila thinks it is a very good thing that she is not a boy.

They switch to tea halfway through the evening, though Anya abstains, claiming that Mila “isn’t making it right” and “if you can’t do it the traditional way then it isn’t worth drinking.” Mila pretends to be offended, and Sara laughs, filling her cup extra high in a show of support. Anya laments their lack of respect for what she calls a time-honored art.

“You’ll be up all night, drinking that stuff.”

“That’s the plan,” says Sara, and clinks her mug against Mila’s in a toast. Anya rolls her eyes at them.

“Suit yourselves.”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem when we went though two whole pots of coffee,” Mila points out, and Anya sniffs but doesn’t reply.

“If I stay awake long enough,” says Sara, “eventually it becomes morning and I don’t need to go back to my room and put myself to bed.”

“Is there something wrong with it?”

“With what?”

Anya folds her arms. “Your bed.”

“Not my bed, no.”

“Then are you hoping to wind up in someone else’s?”

Sara laughs, a little hollowly, Mila thinks.

“I think my brother might kill me,” she says.

“Why should he matter?” Anya steals Mila’s mug, takes a swig (grimacing), and passes it back to her. “One thing I’ve learned in my short time on this floating rock is never to let a man make your decisions for you.”

“Mickey doesn’t decide things for me.”

“But he has influence over the choices you do make.”

Sara shoots her a glare, the first real harsh look Mila’s seen her give, and Anya throws her hands up in surrender.

“I’m just trying to better understand where you’re coming from,” she says.

“I love my brother.” Sara bites her lip, glancing down at her hands, which tighten around her drink. “Please believe that I do, even if he…” She stops.

“He and I have always been very close,” she says. “It’s a common feature for twins. I am grateful that I have grown up with such a steadfast supporter—whenever anyone would make fun of me, or say anything against me, he was always the first to leap to my aid, and that hasn’t changed. But I do worry, at times, that he doesn’t know how to be independent of me.”

“And doesn’t that bother you?”

She shrugs helplessly. “Of course it bothers me. But it’s the way things are. He’s my brother.”

“A lot of things,” says Anya, “are only the way they are because no one has had the courage to step up and change them yet.”

Mila nudges her side. “Your views on the subject have been noted.”

“No, she’s right.” Sara drains the dregs of her tea and makes a sorry smile. “The courage to make change in one’s life, or the lives of others, is an admirable trait. It’s one I’ve often wished I possessed.”

“I think you should talk to your brother,” Mila says.

She sighs. “I know I should talk to him. I just don’t know what to say.”

“I imagine the truth would be a reasonable place to start.”

“Or we could go back to drinking caffeine and ignoring our problems.”

“Too late for that.” Anya stretches. “If I can’t ignore my problems then no one else gets to either.”

There’s a pounding on the door, and she makes a face. “And speaking of problems…”

Mila rises from her seat, but Anya waves her arms frantically.

“Don’t you dare. That’s Georgi, I’m sure of it.”

“How?”

“Who else would it be at this hour?”

“You’re just paranoid,” Mila scoffs, and as the hammering intensifies goes to answer it. Anya dives for cover underneath her bed, while Sara suppresses a giggle.

Mila wrenches the door open a crack, peering through it to see that it is, in fact, Georgi who has come to call on them, now lying prostrate on the hall floor. She glares at him.

“Do you realize what time it is?”

“Yes.” He sniffles. “I just—” Another sniffle. “I was wondering—” Is that a _sob_? “If Anya is around?”

He makes such a pathetic sight that Mila can’t help feeling a little bad for him. His infatuation with Anya is obviously genuine, even if he expresses it in an inappropriately overbearing manner. But even so.

“No,” she says, and makes to slam the door, but he sticks his fingers through the slot before she can pull it closed.

“ _Please_ ,” he begs, “I just want a word.”

Mila glances behind her. From beneath the bed, Anya shakes her head vigorously and draws a slash across her throat.

“Anya isn’t in right now,” she says.

“She has to be,” Georgi wails. “I have to tell her—

“Georgi.” Mila grips his arm, steering him away from the room. “Let’s take a walk.”

He doesn’t even try to resist as she jockeys him over to the staircase and sits him down on the top step. Once she’s satisfied he isn’t going anywhere she relinquishes her hold, kneeling beside him.

“Georgi,” she says, “I know things hurt right now, but you can’t keep doing this.”

“I just can’t make her understand,” he moans. “I _love_ her.”

“I know.” Mila pats his back gingerly. “I know. But she doesn’t feel the same way, and there’s nothing you can do to change that.”

A fire wells up behind his eyes. “She used to love me. She could love me again, if she’d only _listen_.”

“ _Georgi_.” She clasps his shoulders firmly, forcing him to stare directly at her. “What happened between you and Anya is over now. Completely. You have the right to be brokenhearted, and she has the right to refuse to speak to you. Can you understand that?”

He sniffles again and nods, cowed.

“I didn’t think it would turn out like this,” he says, and his voice is childlike in its softness.

“You never do,” says Mila. “Love is cruel like that.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“Perhaps not.”

They’re quiet a couple moments, sitting together on the stairs. The stillness of the air is broken only by Georgi’s muffles sobs. Mila weighs her options.

“If anyone asks,” she says, “this never happened.”

She hugs him, and at first he’s surprised, but then he throws himself on top of her, howling into the fabric of her t-shirt. She resigns herself to petting his head in what she hopes is a comforting manner. He doesn’t really seem to notice, too intent on his whimpering. _How did I get myself into this?_ Mila thinks, but Georgi is her friend, in a funny sort of way, and she owes it to Anya to keep him distracted.

Eventually, he shifts off of her and turns away. He wipes his eyes a moment, straightening his jacket, and seems to compose himself.

“If Anya and I are not meant to be,” he says, face screwed up in a valiant effort at a breezy expression, “then that means the one for me is out there somewhere else. I shall try to hold my tears until the day I meet her.”

“Uh, that’s…great, Georgi.”

“Thank you, Mila,” he says, serious. They shake hands, which is a little weird, but at least he isn’t crying anymore. He plods down the stairs, back to his own room, Mila hopes, and she is left to wonder if this is worth adding to the list of the strangest nights she’s had.

It gets only a little stranger when she returns to her friends to find Sara arm-wrestling with Anya, who is still lodged halfway under the bed.

“Mila!” She brightens, taking advantage of the distraction to defeat Sara in one swift motion. “Is he gone?”

She nods. “Off to bed quietly.”

“I don’t know how you managed it. You must be a miracle worker.”

Mila smirks, taking a seat next to Sara. “You can figure out a way to thank me later.”

Anya dips her head in as much of a bow as she can manage from her current position. “I am eternally indebted to you, O Great One.”

“I have to admit,” says Sara, “I didn’t realize how many impressive talents you have.”

Mila flushes at the praise, and her heart does an odd stutter.

“Please,” she says, “all I did was talk to him.”

Anya slides out from beneath the bed. “Does that mean I don’t have to make it up to you?”

“Negative.”

“Damn.” She grins. “It was worth a try.”

Before Mila can say anything else, there’s another knock at the door. She frowns.

“I could swear he went back to his room,” she mumbles, heaving herself to her feet. “What is it this time, Georgi?”

But when she yanks open the door it isn’t Georgi who stands grimacing down his nose at her, hands clasped primly behind his back.

“Mickey.”

“I am sorry to bother you.” He glances into the space behind her, and Mila shifts so that she’s blocking his view. Out of the corner of her eye she can see that Sara has gone still. “I was wondering if you have seen my sister.”

“You do know how late it is, right?”

“That’s why I’m worried. I tried calling her, but she won’t answer. I thought you might know where she is.”

Mila spares a furtive glance behind her. Sara is staring fixedly at the floor, as though she’s discovered a particularly interesting spot on the carpet. (Given the state of that carpet, the possibility isn’t exactly out of the question, though Mila severely doubts it’s the furnishings that have her preoccupied.)

“If I did,” Mila says, “why should I tell you?”

Mickey scowls at her.

“She’s my sister,” he says.

“She’s busy.”

“Busy doing what?”

“That’s her business.”

“I just want to make sure she’s safe.”

“She’s safe,” says Mila, “are you happy?”

“Mickey.”

Mila feels Sara standing behind her, only a few inches away. There’s reluctance in her voice, but resolve also.

“I have chosen to spend the evening with my friends,” she says. “Now that you know where I am, you are welcome to leave.”

“Sara.” He nods his greeting to her. “Why didn’t you answer my calls?”

She shrugs, a fluid, practiced gesture. “I turned my phone off.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me first?”

“I am twenty years old, Mickey.” She squares her shoulders. “I am fully capable of making my own decisions about what I want to do and whether or not I should inform you.”

“You can’t fault me for being concerned about you,” he says.

“I’m sorry.”

On impulse, Mila reaches back and takes her hand, squeezing it once. She can feel Sara’s curiosity, but she doesn’t turn around.

“Mickey,” she says. “There’s something your sister wants to talk to you about.”

“Really?” He turns his frown on Mila now, and Sara pulls her back.

“She’s only joking. Good night, Mickey. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Sara.” Mila does face her this time, and she can see her friend’s thoughts warring across her face. She touches Sara’s cheek, a fleeting moment of unbridled affection, before letting her arm drop back to her side. “It’s okay.”

Sara’s gaze sinks back to the floor, and Mila worries she’s going to run, or shut the door on her brother and pretend none of this ever happened, but then she glances back up, and her expression is determined.

“Actually,” she says, “Mickey, Mila is right. There is something we need to discuss.”

“Sara? What’s this about?”

She steps past Mila, out into the hall.

“If you wouldn’t mind waiting up for me,” she says, “I’ll be back soon. I’d like to settle this first.”

“Of course,” says Mila, and watches as Sara closes the door on them.

“That’s not going to end well,” Anya observes. She sets her mug aside and grabs a book from her nightstand, paging through to find her place.

“She’ll be alright,” Mila says. “And he will be too, eventually. It’s about time they had this conversation.”

“What do you suppose they’re saying?”

“Sara is finally asserting her independence.” _At least I hope._

Anya hums vaguely and settles in to read. Mila pulls out one of her theory texts and tries to make some headway into a paper she has due next week, but she can’t concentrate. She strains her ears, trying to detect any sound of conflict from the hall outside, but Sara and Mickey must have moved somewhere else because all she hears is the occasional flutter of Anya turning another page.

After what feels like an agonizingly long time, the door opens. Anya has dozed off, her book still open and resting haphazardly atop her stomach. Mila stands and creeps over to the entrance as Sara slips through.

“How did it go?”

“About as well as you’d expect.”

She looks tired, but there’s relief evident in her bearing, which means it can’t have ended too badly.

“I’m proud of you,” Mila says.

Sara grins. “So am I.” She peers past Mila at the sleeping Anya and shifts back into the hall. “I should probably go.”

“I guess.”

“But Mila.” Her face is serious, suddenly, and also way closer than usual. “It was a good night. Thank you.”

Mila’s eyes flutter of their own volition down to her lips, and Sara studies her carefully. Slowly, she rises up on her toes to press the briefest of kisses to the line where Mila’s forehead meets her hair.

“Until next time,” she says.

And once again Mila is reminded of how many times she’s rendered speechless while the other girl walks away.

* * *

It’s the third time in a row they’ve begun their rehearsal like this.

Crouched in a lopsided triangle with Victor and Yuri, eyes squeezed tightly shut, Yuuri tries to ignore the fact that he’s slowly losing feeling in his thighs and focus. The floor feels unnecessarily hard beneath him, or maybe that’s just because he’s usually dancing on top of it, not sitting. The lights have been dimmed, and the air is still. Yuri holds out a whole two minutes before he breaks the quiet.

“Victor,” he sighs, “I don’t see the point of this.”

“Concentrate,” Victor offers as his only piece of advice, eyes still closed.

“Easy for you to say,” mutters Yuri, shifting so that his knees are drawn together beneath him. He makes it another minute.

“This is stupid,” he declares, giving up and flopping down on his back. “And pointless. And this floor is uncomfortable.”

“Less complaining,” says Victor, “and more meditating.”

“It would help if I knew what we were supposed to be meditating _about_.”

“Your themes,” says Victor, and Yuuri catches a murmured _like I told you_.

“I hate my theme. Why couldn’t you have given the pig ‘unconditional love’ and let me do Eros?”

“I’m right here,” says Yuuri, and he almost expects the boy to stick his tongue out at him, but he restrains himself.

Finally, Victor cracks open one eye. “Generally speaking, this is supposed to be a silent activity.”

“I’m done being silent.” Yuri stands. “I want to _dance_. You’ve been skirting around showing us the official choreography for weeks now.”

“He has a point,” Yuuri says.

Victor shakes his head. “If the two of you are actually in agreement about something then I’m really in trouble.”

“So are you gonna show us or not?”

“Fine.” There’s the glint of a challenge in Victor’s expression. “Let the people have what they want.”

“About time,” Yuri says. Silently, Yuuri echoes his sentiment. They’ve been doing meditation and technique and other general practice work for far too long without having a concrete idea of what they’ll be dancing. It’s time they knew.

They’ve heard their songs a few times—arrangements of the same piece, like the performance itself. The Agape melody is the more melancholy of the two, it seems to Yuuri. According to Victor, the Latin lyrics have to do with someone devoting their life to a “divine and perfect love,” working hard and praying in the hope of eternal peace. It still strikes him as odd that Yuri is the one who will be dancing the number. “Peace” doesn’t seem to be a word in his vocabulary.

Even that isn’t as strange as Yuuri’s own theme. Eros. He’s sifted through pages of blog articles and Wikipedia entries, scouring every word for something, _anything_ , that will give him an idea of how to approach the subject. Yuuri won’t say he isn’t a passionate person. He’s felt the deep flush of heat that accompanies the stirring of his heartstrings on more than one occasion, to be sure, but he can’t help feeling woefully underprepared. Actually expressing these sorts of passions is something he’s never been much good at.

Hearing Yuri’s song again now as Victor begins his routine, he wonders if perhaps their director has made the wrong decision. Yuuri would be having much less trouble if he’d been allowed to dance this piece. And Yuri has always been given to passion, albeit of the angry rather than amorous variety. Shouldn’t that make him the better choice for Eros?

As he watches Victor dance Yuuri has trouble holding onto that thought, as much as he’d like to. He hates to admit it, but even if the theme doesn’t seem quite suited to Yurio, the style of choreography Victor has chosen is totally him. It’s fluid, airy, with a high technical difficulty that Yuuri isn’t sure he could pull off as a fourth-year. He seems to float across the floor rather than step on it, and Yuuri can only imagine what the same movements will look like en pointe. Graceful. Ethereal. Like it or not, this is the style Yuri is known for. Yuuri has watched him excel at it during their lessons together, awe mixed with the slightest hint of jealousy.

Victor finishes, back bent into an arch at an angle so deep it’s nearly grotesque, hands clasped above him like he’s entreating the heavens. The music finishes, and he drops out of the pose, grinning at them.

“What do you think?” he asks.

Yuri remains unimpressed, at least on the surface.

“I’ve pretty much got it,” he says. _He’s skilled enough that he might actually be telling the truth._

“And now for part two,” says Victor, and Yuuri swallows nervously. If Yurio’s choreography is any indication of his own solo’s difficulty level, he may as well start saying his prayers right now.

He skips through a few tracks on the stereo to find the right one, then takes his place at the center of the floor once more.

And now Yuuri sees why he wants so badly to keep this a surprise.

He begins the piece standing in his place, performing a series of flamenco-esque gestures with his arms before prepping a triple pirouette. He steps out of the spin before it comes to completion, thrusting his hip out suggestively and tossing Yuuri a wink. Yuuri feels a little faint.

The music shifts, picking up a lively tempo, and Victor launches into a series of spins and jumps, feet flying over the marley. There are no pauses for breath in this routine, only perpetual motion, a whirlwind worthy of his personality, or perhaps the more tumultuous fragments of Yuuri’s.

The whole thing is unlike any style of ballet he’s ever seen before. It builds on classical technique, sure, but bring it anywhere near a classical company of some repute and they’d take off running the opposite direction, _c’est trop moderne, n’est-ce pas?_ He watches the frenzied final sequence, a juxtaposition of character and contemporary movements strung seamlessly between the traditional components. Victor’s pace is relentless, mesmerizing—it’s seductive yet brazen, like he’s aware of the storm coming but feels no desire to stop it.

This time, he ends with one leg bent on raised toes; arms wrapped around himself rather than flung out in an invocation. His eyes are cast down, but there’s the tiniest hint of a smirk on his lips. He doesn’t look at Yuuri when he speaks, but somehow his words cut straight through him.

“Can you handle that?”

And from his tone Yuuri isn’t exactly sure what he’s referring to, but whatever it is the answer, for the moment, is no. If he can’t handle watching Victor perform the routine, the notion of being able to pull it off himself is infinitely more unlikely.

Yuri is watching them both carefully from where he’s collapsed to a seat against the opposite wall, a frown forming on his brow. And Yuuri takes this as a reminder: he can’t allow himself to be conquered so easily. He looks Victor dead in the eye.

“I can handle anything you give me.”

Victor’s eyes widen a moment, and then his smirk spreads.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Yuri coughs, loudly and very pointedly, and Victor tears his gaze away from Yuuri’s with evident reluctance.

“You do realize this is a _rehearsal_ , right?”

“We were rehearsing,” Victor says indignantly, but after that they get down to business. He sets them to work running drills at the barre, and won’t let them attempt their actual choreography until he’s completely satisfied with their form. Yuuri walks back to the dorm aching and stiff all over, but at least he knows what he’s gotten himself into now.

Yuri breaks away from them, in a hurry to get back to his room and fall into bed—he’s always in a hurry these days, moreso than he was before, as though he’s afraid of being caught idle. His behavior isn’t unusual enough for Yuuri to be genuinely worried about it, but it does leave grounds for concern. He wonders if he should try to broach the topic or if that’s a recipe for a broken limb.

He and Victor stroll the paths together before turning in. This, too, has become a routine of theirs—where Yuri rushes, they relax, enjoying the few moments they can linger together before life calls them away to other obligations.

Victor stops beneath the barren branches of an oak tree and turns to him.

“Give me your honest opinion,” he says. “What did you think of my choreography?”

“It’s…unique,” Yuuri says, and laughs when Victor pouts. “I don’t mean that as a bad thing. You’ll definitely surprise the audience, and they’ll love whatever you do regardless. I’m just worried about keeping up.”

“You’re going to be great,” Victor assures him. “That is why I chose you.”

“And here I thought it was for my dashing good looks.”

“Those too,” says Victor, pulling him closer and ruffling his hair. “You’re quite the charmer.”

“Tease,” Yuuri mutters, grinning into his jacket. He can feel Victor’s heart beating out a steady rhythm beneath the layers of fabric.

“If I can pull this off,” he says, “people might actually be impressed with me.”

Victor’s arm tightens around him. “People are already impressed with you, Yuuri.”

He tilts his head back to look up at him. “Oh yeah?”

“You’ve certainly impressed me, for one thing.”

Yuuri rests his cheek in the crook of Victor’s neck, emboldened by the moment and the darkness that surrounds them.

“I know,” he says. “I’m glad for that.”

They stand there, warm from the proximity in spite of the chill in the air, pulses racing in tandem.

“Sometimes,” Victor says, and stops. “Sometimes, I am amazed that of all the people in the universe, I managed to meet you.”

“That should really be the other way around,” says Yuuri. “You’re the legend, not me.”

“You could be one day. You have the talent, Yuuri, I’ve seen it. Lilia wouldn’t have asked just anyone to go en pointe, and I wouldn’t ask just anyone to dance in my senior thesis project.”

“So it really isn’t because of my dashing good looks?”

He grins. “Maybe just a little. In all seriousness, Yuuri…” He trails off, face clouding over for a moment. “Tell me if you’re having trouble. I can help you, if you want me to.”

And this is another time when Yuuri isn’t sure if he’s talking about dance or life in general, but he breaks away from him to nod. “I will.”

“Good.” Victor takes his hand, and they resume their usual pace back in the direction of the dormitory. “Because I believe we are going to do great things together this semester.”


	9. Chapter 9

It takes Yuri several weeks and one too many excruciatingly awkward encounters to talk to Victor. It’s only after he runs into Otabek in the hall—literally _runs into_ , the snarl dying on his lips as he sees who he’s facing, and they stare at one another until he scurries away—that he knows the time for desperate measures has come.

They’re in their room together studying— _together_ , which should be a sign to Victor, but he’s too wrapped up in his reading to pay much attention.

“Victor,” Yuri says, at last, “you promised to tell Lilia to cancel the Diana and Actaeon duet if I didn’t cooperate with your stupid project. Well, I’m not cooperating.”

“What?” He doesn’t look up from his book. “That’s silly, Yura, you’re doing fine.”

Yuri grits his teeth. “No, I’m not.” He stalks over to Victor’s side of the room and slams his book shut. That gets his attention.

“Yuri.” He frowns, examining him closely. “Is something wrong?”

“Are you even listening to me? I told you, I’m done putting up with your senior thesis. So you can go to the Bear and tell her that I shouldn’t be allowed to perform my pas de deux.”

Victor’s frown turns shrewd, and Yuri feels his stomach jerk unpleasantly.

“You know,” he says, too casually, “the other day Lilia mentioned to me in passing that you haven’t been turning up for your rehearsals with Otabek. She’s concerned you’re neglecting your commitments.”

Yuri crams his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt, glaring at the floor. “So what if I am? She can ban me from the gala, for all I care.”

“It almost sounds like you want her to.”

At this Yuri makes to duck out of his way, but Victor steps in front of him, blocking his exit.

“Is there some reason you’re so unwilling to perform at the exhibition? I thought getting a starring role was a dream of yours.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He kicks at the carpet, wincing at the feel of the impact on his toes. “I still have next year.”

“Since when has Yuri Plisetsky valued next year over tomorrow?”

He’s changed his mind. This was a terrible idea.

“Let me go,” he says, trying for the door, but again Victor stops him. His expression is annoyingly sympathetic.

“Yuri,” he says quietly, “you can do what you want to do. But I hope it’s what you do _want_. If the Diana and Actaeon duet isn’t something you’re interested in—

“It isn’t that.”

Yuri is as surprised as Victor at his outburst. He scowls.

“This isn’t about me,” he says.

“No?”

Damn that stupid curious gleam in Victor’s eyes, and damn his mouth for getting him into this situation in the first place. Yuri’s glower slips as he steels himself.

“It’s…about Otabek.”

“I wondered.” Victor sits back down at his desk, folding his hands in his lap. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Yuri glares at him again. “I know I don’t. The world isn’t falling over itself for your counsel, Victor.”

“I only meant—

“He got a letter from the Mariinsky.”

Victor’s words die in his throat.

“Ah,” he manages. “And this is Otabek we’re talking about?”

“If I dance that pas de deux with him, it’ll ruin his chances.”

“Why?”

Yuri blinks. “What?”

“Why will it ruin his chances? That duet is a very popular showpiece. You both will have the opportunity to demonstrate your skills.”

“But the focus will be on me,” says Yuri. “And it can’t be, not if he wants to get recruited.”

“Does he want to?”

Yuri shrugs. “Does it matter?”

“It isn’t a decision you get to make for him,” Victor says. “Regardless of your thoughts on the subject, this is something you have already been chosen for. You and Otabek will have to make the most of it yourselves.”

“You know,” Yuri says, “I always thought I hated you most when you were being unreasonable, but that’s not true. Your rational side is even worse.”

“I’m not just rational.” Victor grins. “I’m right. When is your next rehearsal?”

“Twenty minutes. But I’ve never—

“Doesn’t matter. You’d better leave now.”

And maybe Yuri shouldn’t be listening to someone who once said he’d fly halfway around the world for the sake of what he liked to call love (and Yuri liked to call stupidity), but there is a grain of truth in his words that he can’t ignore. A very small grain. Practically infinitesimal.

(There’s another reason, too, although he ignores it; it has something to do with the ache in his chest every time he wants to tell Otabek something and remembers they aren’t speaking to each other.)

He wonders if he should tell Lilia that he’s actually going to show up to practice now, but as it turns out, before he can find her or Otabek, the headmistress finds him first.

“Yuri Plisetsky.”

Her glare makes it clear that it would be useless to try and run away. He bows his head.

“Is there something you want, Madame?”

She snorts. “Your sudden use of formality is unnerving. You look like you expect me to throw you out of the Academy.”

“Will you?”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” The line of her frown is as severe as ever, but Yuri thinks he sees some concern hedging its way into her expression. “I would like to discuss your recent absences from the mandatory gala rehearsals.”

He shifts uncomfortably, unsure of how best to answer her. “About that…

She raises an eyebrow. “Have you had a change of heart?”

He looks at her, surprised, and she almost smiles.

“It’s no secret that you wanted to cancel your pas de deux with Mr. Altin,” she says. “You did tell me so yourself.”

 _And you refused_ , Yuri thinks. “I thought—

“You thought I wouldn’t notice you slacking off?”

“No.”

“No?” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what’s come over you lately, but I am giving you one last chance to change your mind. You should be grateful. Most students are not so lucky.”

A few days ago, perhaps, Yuri would have been tempted to tell her he didn’t want her second chance and storm off, damning himself and securing Otabek’s fate. Now he can’t bring himself to do it. He looks back to the floor.

“I’ll take that chance.”

She really does smile, this time, a rare and fleeting thing.

“Good,” she says crisply. “I would hate to lose a candidate for prima ballerina.”

His head snaps up again. “Do you mean it?”

“Keep studying, show up to all of your rehearsals, and we shall see.”

If Lilia Baranovskaya, former prima ballerina of the Bolshoi ballet, thinks he has what it takes, it is a very good sign.

“Thank you,” he blurts, and she waves him away dismissively.

“Go, or you’ll be late for your rehearsal. You’d better hope Mr. Altin decides to attend as well.”

Yuri does hope. He has to use this opportunity to make things right with her, and with Otabek. He got off easy with the headmistress—too easy, perhaps—but he may not be so lucky with his friend.

 _It’s what I deserve_ , he thinks, though he’ll never say it aloud. His dignity can only take so much bruising, and it’s taken all the courage he can muster just to make his way to the studio door. He still has the number and the time slot right, even if he hasn’t been to a single one of their scheduled meetings. A surge of guilt overpowers him, but he forces it back. If he’s going to do this, he can’t afford to focus on any of his emotions.

At first he thinks the room is empty. Yakov, who has been assigned as their choreographer for the piece, is never less than ten minutes early for anything, and again the guilt wells up in Yuri’s stomach. Is he really so much of a lost cause?

 _You brought this upon yourself_ , he reminds himself, and then he sees someone dancing at the far end of the room. Not just someone. _Otabek._ His heart rate speeds up, and he straightens his shoulders, taking a slow breath.

Otabek doesn’t see him until he’s only a few meters away. He falls sloppily out of a brisé volé, straightening to attention.

“That technique could use some work,” Yuri says.

Otabek’s face is neither hostile nor inviting. His expression is utterly blank, as emotionless and unmoving as a stone.

“You must have the wrong room.”

“No. I don’t.”

For a harrowing moment Otabek stares at him, hard and searching, and then his posture settles. He folds his arms.

“You seem to owe me an explanation.”

“Not just that.” Yuri risks a step forward, meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry, Otabek.”

Again they stare at each other, and then Otabek turns away.

“You can give me an apology now,” he says, “but it can’t make up for all the time you’ve lost.”

“I know. I’m sorry for that too, even if it isn’t enough. And it’s actually killing me to say this right now, but I…” Yuri takes another deep breath. “I want to dance this pas de deux with you, too.”

Otabek turns back to him. “And if I refuse?”

“You have that right. But I hope you’ll reconsider.” Yuri unslings his bag, pulling out his pointe shoes. “I brought these. When Yakov gets here he can run me through the choreography, and then—

“Yakov isn’t going to be here.”

Yuri stops. “What?”

“He’s overseeing a rehearsal for the Moscow International Ballet,” says Otabek. “Since you weren’t going to be here, it didn’t seem to matter.”

“Oh.” Then Yakov is another person he’ll have to add to his list of apologies. “Well…you can show me what you’ve done, and I’ll see how I can fit in.”

“I haven’t done much,” says Otabek, though his voice isn’t angry. “I had the misfortune of being paired with a delinquent.”

“And is the delinquent forgiven?”

“Maybe. If he works for it.”

“I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?” Otabek raises his eyebrows. “Imagine that. I got the Ice Tiger of Russia to say he’d do anything for me.”

“There’s no point in going on about it,” Yuri mutters, already lamenting just how much his pride has suffered today. “And don’t call me that, it’s a stupid nickname.”

“But you said _anything_.”

“Can we just skip to the part where we dance now?”

“Alright.” Otabek is almost smiling—only almost, but better than nothing. “But I will not be responsible for explaining any of this to Yakov.”

Yuri doesn’t relish the thought of that conversation, but there’s a grin spreading on his face. “Thank you, Beka.”

He shrugs. “You’re my friend, aren’t you?”

Yuri dons his shoes and Otabek begins to walk him through some of the choreography he’s learned so far. All is well until Yuri actually goes en relevé for the first time and his toes scream in protest. He collapses to his knees, trying to shield his face from Otabek, but the other boy doesn’t miss the brief flash of pain. He crouches beside him.

“Your feet.” Otabek’s brow furrows.

“It’s these damn pointe lessons,” Yuri says, grimacing. He begins to undo his laces. “Everything for the art, right?”

“I thought you finished your lessons after the start of the new semester.”

“I finished the extra ones, yeah. But Lilia put me in the level three class for the spring, and Victor has me en pointe for my variation, so now it’s most of what I do.”

“Indeed.” His frown deepens. “How many hours…?”

“Not enough,” says Yuri. “I need to be better.”

Otabek’s mouth is a hard line. “It shouldn’t be causing you pain like this.”

“I’m _fine_ , Beka, I just—hey!”

He doesn’t even have the chance to finish his sentence before Otabek hauls him up by the shoulders and all but drags him towards the door.

“You’re not still mad at me, are you?”

“You need to take better care of your feet.”

“I already take good care of my feet.”

“Not good enough, apparently.” And Yuri can hear a reproachful smile in his voice. “Don’t sulk just because I’m right.”

Yuri scowls. “You’re not even looking at me.”

“I don’t need to see you to know you’re sulking.” They stop by the side of the street, where Otabek has his motorcycle parked.

“Your apartment?”

“I have supplies there.”

They could just go to the Academy physician’s office, but that would mean explaining why his feet hurt, which would mean Lilia getting involved, and Yuri is already in enough hot water with her as it is. This seems like the preferable option.

There’s no elevator in Otabek’s building, which seems like a concerning breach of accessibility code, but he isn’t deterred. In one motion he scoops Yuri into his arms and proceeds to heft him up the stairs.

“I can walk by myself, you know.”

“I know.” But Otabek doesn’t let him down until he reaches his front door, where he falters, caught in a dilemma.

“I’ve got it.”

Yuri feels around in Otabek’s jacket pockets for the key and jams it into the lock. Otabek kicks the door closed behind them and drops him onto the couch.

“Stay.”

He disappears into the kitchen. Yuri wants to argue with him, but Otabek’s couch is comfortable, and his muscles groan in protest when he tries to move. There’s a pile of old laundry on one of the cushions that he decides to use as a pillow.

“Your place is still a mess.”

“I don’t have time to clean.”

Otabek comes back in, setting his first-aid kit on the coffee table and popping off the lid. He sorts through its contents methodically, pulling out some ointment and a roll of bandages. His fingers move to the cuff of Yuri’s socks and stop, the hesitation its own kind of question. Yuri nods, and he unrolls them, frown returning as he sees the blisters.

“You should be more careful with yourself.”

“Whatever,” Yuri mutters, “just get on with it.”

Otabek wraps his foot with diligent attention. Yuri thinks again of how unexpectedly delicate his hands must be, strong as they are, to perform this task with a grace of the kind seldom found beyond the dance floor.

“You have to have a lot of strength,” Otabek says, “to do this kind of work.”

“I’m strong enough,” says Yuri. “Lilia made sure me and the other Yuuri went to a practitioner for assessment before we could start.”

“I know you’re strong enough,” says Otabek, gently. “You’ve been working yourself too hard lately. Your body needs time to rest so it can heal.”

“ _‘Rest’_ is just a synonym for retirement.”

Otabek only finishes wrapping his foot and straightens up to inspect his work.

“Some pain is necessary,” he says, “and some isn’t. If you can’t distinguish between the two you won’t make it long enough to retire.”

Yuri sighs and leans back against the armrest of the couch, closing his eyes. “With Madame Okukawa we mostly did barre exercises, beginner stuff. But now I actually have to apply the technique in class and…it’s a lot. I don’t want to fall behind.”

“Yuri Plisetsky.” That fond tone is back in Otabek’s voice, and suddenly Yuri’s thoughts become a fragmented, jumbled buzz. “I don’t believe falling behind is something you will ever be capable of.”

Yuri is glad that he can’t see Otabek, or else he might not be able to stand it. “Aren’t you supposed to be angry with me?”

“I am,” Otabek confesses, “a bit. Still. What you did, Yuri…that wasn’t your decision to make, and the problem could have been solved a lot quicker if you’d just talked to me. Instead I…” He trails off, and Yuri steals a glance at him. He’s turned to the window, though it’s gotten too dark outside to see much of anything, and his face is stone.

“I’m relieved you’ve come to your senses,” he finishes.

Yuri bites his lip. “Me too.”

Even these few words have taken great effort, on both their ends, and they are silent. Otabek grabs a book off the coffee table and begins to read, while Yuri casts around for a distraction.

In the handful of times he’s been to Otabek’s apartment, he’s never much paid attention to the décor (beyond the houseplants, which seem to multiply with his every absence). But now Yuri notices a small photograph in a plain wooden frame sitting at the edge of the windowsill. He reaches over and picks it up, curious.

“Who’s this?”

Otabek pulls his gaze away from the book in his lap, and his eyes fall on the picture. Something in his jaw tightens.

“My older sister,” he says, and returns to his reading.

“I didn’t know you had one.”

“Two, actually.” He’s still staring down at the book, but his eyes are unmoving, fingers fixed in place.

“I always wondered what that must be like.” Yuri drags himself to a seat. “I never had any siblings.”

Otabek gives a grunt and a noncommittal shrug, turning over a page he didn’t actually read.

“Did they tease you? Mila and Victor tease me all the time. They’re not my relatives but they’re annoying enough to be.”

“Yuri.” Otabek puts his book aside, standing. “I’m going to make soup. Would you like some?”

He’s already making his retreat to the kitchen when Yuri answers him.

“Why don’t you ever talk about them?”

The muscles of his back tense. “Family is a complicated thing.”

Yuri lays his head back on his makeshift pillow. He’s not sleepy; in fact, he feels strangely keyed up, but he must be more exhausted than he thought because he’s out as soon as his eyes close. The next thing he knows, Otabek’s hand is at his shoulder, shaking him awake.

“Dinner’s ready.”

There’s something so bizarrely domestic about the scene—Otabek setting their places at the coffee table, Yuri curled up amidst a pile of his old socks. Otabek passes him a bowl wrapped in a towel to buffer the heat, and Yuri tries a cautious spoonful.

“It’s good.”

“My sister used to make it for me whenever I was sick,” says Otabek. “She’s the one you saw in the picture.”

“Thank you,” says Yuri, and it’s both for the soup and for the scrap of information Otabek has just entrusted to him; a peace offering.

They finish eating in companionable silence, and Yuri finds he’s grown tired again. He yawns, scooting closer to Otabek next to him, and buries his head in his shoulder.

“Comfortable?”

Yuri can’t tell if he’s being facetious or if it’s a genuine question, so he elbows his stomach half-heartedly. Otabek moves, but not in retaliation. Instead, he rests his head on top of Yuri’s, leaning ever so slightly into him. All the air seems to go out of the room.

They are painfully still for a few moments, and then Otabek draws away. Yuri looks up at him.

“Your hair’s gotten so long.”

Yuri swallows, trying to keep his voice steady.

“If I’m not careful Lilia will make me start wearing it in a bun soon.”

Otabek’s lips pull to the side in an easy, impertinent grin. “I’d like to see that.”

“I bet you would.” Yuri’s fingers skim against the stubble at Otabek’s temple, which feels newly-shaven. “You ever think about getting rid of the undercut?”

“What?” Otabek’s grin widens, and there’s a sly spark in his eyes. “But I look cool this way.”

Yuri doesn’t want to admit exactly how much he agrees with that statement.

“Yeah,” he says, “but JJ has an undercut. You almost look like him.”

“That is genuinely the most offensive thing you have ever said to me.”

Otabek shifts his position, angling himself closer, and brushes Yuri’s hair away from his face. Suddenly he freezes, drawing in a faint, hitched breath, and something flickers through his eyes. It isn’t fear, exactly, or even surprise, but something just as raw. His hand stays held in place, hovering against the back of Yuri’s head, tentative yet definite.

“Beka?”

Yuri doesn’t know why he says it—why his name has become a question—but Otabek isn’t perturbed.

“Yura.”

There is a steady assurance in his voice, now, and something else too. The faintest hint of a smirk. This close, Yuri can see the soft smile lines of Otabek’s forehead, and his heartbeat stutters.

“Beka,” he says again, implores, almost.

“Yuri. There is something I—

Otabek is interrupted by a loud crash in the hallway. He pulls back as someone begins hammering on the door, and Yuri bites his tongue to keep from screaming. A strange, nervous laugh bubbles out of Otabek’s throat, as though it isn’t the unexpected visitor that has him caught off-guard. He shoves himself off the couch, coming to a slow, almost reluctant stand.

“I should—get that.”

“Mm.” Yuri forces a nod and watches him leave. Otabek hesitates at the door, though the knocking hasn’t ceased. He bows his head briefly, and Yuri closes his eyes.

“Otabek! So you are here.”

He snaps to attention again at the sound of that voice.

“Victor?” He’s so surprised that he forgets, for the moment, to be properly angry.

“Yura. We were so worried about you when you didn’t come home tonight. You weren’t answering your phone, Yuuri was convinced you’d been _kidnapped_ —

“I turned my phone off,” says Yuri, dully. He’s only just now realizing how late it must be. “And I’m fine. Otabek took me back here after rehearsal.” Another thought occurs to him. “How did you even find us?”

“The administration has to keep any off-campus residences on record, in case of emergency,” says Victor. “With a little convincing I managed to wrangle out an address.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Yuri mutters, while Victor seems to remember whose hospitality he’s encroaching upon and turns to Otabek.

“Thank you,” he says, “for looking after him.”

The implications of that phrasing— _looking after him_ —give Yuri a sour taste in his mouth. He isn’t, generally speaking, someone who needs looking after. He is sixteen years old and not the child half the world likes to imagine.

“It’s no trouble,” Otabek is saying, while offering Victor leftovers of their soup. Gracious, even to the most vexing of interlopers.

“Otabek.” Yuri stands, a little unsteady after so many hours of inactivity. Victor’s eyebrows raise, and something of the suggestion in his expression makes Yuri flush. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“You’re always welcome here.”

His tone paints it as another of the usual courtesies owed a guest, but his eyes let Yuri know he means it. He thinks of that moment on the couch—only a few minutes ago and it already seems like a lifetime—and his cheeks warm again. Victor keeps glancing at him with a slanted, sidelong gaze, and Yuri tries to hold his head high, not deigning to stare in return.

“I will see you in class,” Otabek says.

Again Yuri has to coax his head to move in a bob of agreement.

“And at rehearsal. I’ll actually go to those now.”

Otabek gives a transitory grin, and then he’s all business. He and Victor shake hands, and then Yuri is being led away, down the narrow staircase to the street below. He doesn’t dare look back to see if Otabek is watching. Victor doesn’t speak until they’re nearly back at the Academy.

“So. Were you and Otabek able to work everything out?”

“We were.” Yuri pauses. “Thank you.” Even if Victor is a trespassing nuisance with the worst timing in history.

“I want you to be happy, Yuri.” Victor’s voice is quiet. “The two of you…you seem happy together.”

“Sure, whatever.”

“I expect you’ll be seeing rather a lot of each other now, won’t you?”

Yuri stops walking. “Victor, whatever you’re getting at…

He holds his hands up, though the expression on his face isn’t entirely innocent.

“I’m not getting at anything. I just want you to know that I support you.”

At that Yuri starts forward again.

“Forget it,” he calls back. “I’m never thanking you again.”

“Sure,” Victor says, like he doesn’t quite believe him, and hurries to catch up.

And although they spend the rest of the journey in silence, Yuri’s mind is racing so loud he’s surprised the entire city can’t hear it. _You seem happy together_. What does Victor know? He doesn’t know to mind his own damn business. He doesn’t know anything, really. (And Yuri tries to convince himself that he doesn’t sound defensive, not even a little. What does he have to be defensive about?)

Usually, at times like these, he likes to dance his thoughts away, dance until he collapses from the exertion and there’s nothing left in his brain but the need to drag himself to the nearest bed and crash. But every step he takes reminds him of the bandages at his feet, and if he moves any more than he has to Otabek might actually kill him.

_Otabek._

The way Victor says his name, that knowing tone—it makes Yuri sick. It shouldn’t, and that makes him sicker.

 _At least Otabek is speaking to me again_ , he thinks as he crawls into bed, burying himself in his pillow to block out Victor’s snores. Forgiveness may take a while, he knows, but he’s prepared for that. And he’s a fool, doubtlessly—he thinks it’s worth it.

* * *

The first real spring afternoon in Moscow finds Yuuri and Victor out on the Academy lawn, studies and studio sessions forgotten in the face of a breath of sunshine.

They’re sprawled together on the grass, Yuuri’s cheek resting against Victor’s shoulder, and Victor has his nose buried in his hair. Yuuri knows he should pull away, should make some attempt to restore the professional distance between them, but the warmth of the spring air after the long winter has his head spinning and he’s enjoying this a little too much.

“Aren’t you supposed to be teaching a class this morning?”

“On a day like this? The weather is much too beautiful.”

“I doubt Madame Baranovskaya will accept that excuse.”

“She’s the one who canceled.” Victor laughs at the surprise on his face. “Don’t get your hopes up. She was called away to an urgent meeting in St. Petersburg. I told her I could handle the first-years in her place, but she didn’t seem convinced. I don’t think she trusts me.”

Yuuri lifts his head, a grin forming. “What reason would she have to trust you?”

“You’re right,” says Victor, straight-faced, “ten years at the Academy and a hiatus to tour with the company professionally. Who could trust a record like that?”

“Perhaps she thought they deserved the day off.”

Victor snorts. “And hell has frozen over.”

Yuuri makes a face. “Don’t say that word. I don’t want to hear about anything ‘frozen’ or ‘cold’ until summer.”

Victor smirks at him. “Not a fan of the Moscow winter?”

“See, there’s another banned word. Winter.”

“But Yuuri!” Victor flings his arms around him, tackling him to the ground. “How can you be cold when you have _me_ here to warm you up?”

Yuuri shoves him off, laughing. “I told you not to say _cold_ , you fiend.”

They’ve been so absorbed in their activities that they’ve neglected to notice the boy standing about a meter away on one of the footpaths. He’s frozen in place (not frozen, Yuuri reminds himself, _fixed_ , that’s a much better adjective), staring at them with a look that Yuuri, with an uneasy twinge, has to call revulsion. He doesn’t recognize the stranger, and when he speaks his words—English, though thickly accented—are directed at Victor.

“Hey, goluboi. Why don’t you and your boyfriend spread your filth somewhere else.”

Yuuri doesn’t know what the word means, but he can tell from the way the boy flings it out, the cruel curl of his lip, that it isn’t a good thing. He sees Victor’s shoulders tense slightly and half expects him to throw a punch then and there, but he only pastes on a strained version of his usual smile.

“Come, Yuuri. We’ll be late for practice.”

Yuuri wants to ask him about the encounter, but something holds him back. (He wants to comment, too, on the word _boyfriend_ , but knows he will never be brave enough.)

They weren’t really planning on rehearsing this morning, but it’s not as though they can back out now, and Victor seems determined. He marches Yuuri to the nearest available studio and shuts them inside. At least they have their gear with them. Yuuri laces his pointe shoes, and for three hours Victor talks of nothing but posture and turnout and form.

After, when he makes to leave, Victor stops him, hand on his arm and features inscrutable.

“Come with me,” he says, and Yuuri nods and doesn’t ask where.

They drop off their bags and change into fresh clothes, and then they’re boarding the metro together. In spite of the time of day there are only a couple of other people in their car, and it makes Yuuri hyperaware of Victor’s shoulder pressed against his, the fact that they are not alone.

He doesn’t recognize the section of the city when they disembark. They walk several blocks until they come to a street lined with nightclubs and other, similar establishments. Halfway down they stop in front of a sign that is meaningless to Yuuri, with its Cyrillic script, and he turns to his companion curiously.

“Victor, where—

“Just an ordinary bar,” Victor says, and grins. “Most nights of the week.”

He holds the door for Yuuri, ushering him inside.

Yuuri doesn’t know what he was expecting—if he was expecting anything at all—but it isn’t what he finds. It really is an ordinary bar, and this, he supposes, is what surprises him. Somehow, he would have pegged Victor for a person that desired locations as extravagant and flamboyant as his personality. Instead everything is normal, though a discrete sweep of the premises reveals several subtle anomalies. Most of the patrons seem to be men, many wearing pale blue ribbons at their belts or tucked into jacket pockets. There’s a sign in the entryway, something-ночь. Noch, which means night, if Yuuri’s guidebook Russian serves him correctly.

Victor produces two of the blue ribbons from his blazer and takes Yuuri’s hand, tying one around his wrist.

“Will you do me the honor?”

Yuuri copies his motions, and with their new adornments they make their way over to the bar. Victor nods to several people as they pass, and each of them nods back, regarding him with fondness or cordiality, often casting a second, curious glance at Yuuri. Victor is friendly with the bartender, another assurance that he’s some kind of regular here. He orders two shots of vodka, passing one to Yuuri and lifting his glass.

“Tvoye zdorovye.”

They drink quietly, and Victor orders them another round. He hasn’t said much, not since the afternoon, leaving Yuuri to guess at the significance of this evening. He doesn’t mind, exactly, because he senses that this is another act of trust, another ritual he’s being made privy to, like the make-up. There’s been the impression of an idea floating around Victor for hours, unspoken but distinct, and this bar is part of it.

There’s a little stage at one end of the room, where a lone singer croons into a microphone in the shadows. Out on the dance floor couples sway in time to the music, absorbed only in themselves, and even with a few rather aggressive public displays of affection it all seems relatively tame.

Victor catches him staring.

“Would you like to?”

Yuuri takes his hand, sensing that this is the real reason Victor brought him here, and allows himself to be led out onto the floor. _An ordinary bar_ , Yuuri thinks. _When it wants to be._ They are not alone, not nearly, but there will be no prying eyes here.

Victor slips his hand out of Yuuri’s grasp, cupping it instead around his waist and drawing him closer. They’ve been this close before, Yuuri is sure, as pas de deux partners last semester it was inevitable, but they are not in front of a crowd of students now and he’s still trying to pretend it is only this fact that makes the present moment feel more intimate.

“Of all the times we’ve danced together,” says Victor, so soft it barely constitutes a whisper, “I always wanted it to be like this.”

“Pressed hastily together in the back of some old bar?”

It is a feigned ignorance, deliberately transparent. Victor’s eyes never leave his. He lifts Yuuri’s hand, impossibly gentle, raising it to his lips and kissing each of his fingers one by one, slowly and just as deliberate.

“Like this.”

Yuuri’s voice, when he finds it, has to claw its way through the sudden thickness in his throat, coming out strained-sounding and too heavy.

“You never said.”

“Have you ever doubted me?”

 _Yes_ , Yuuri thinks, but he doesn’t just now, and something of this trust must register in his features because Victor dips back down, kissing his way up the smooth underside of Yuuri’s arm.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs into his shoulder.

“Am I?”

Victor presses his face to the curve of his neck, inhaling deeply, and Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut.

“I thought you wanted to take me dancing.”

“And isn’t that exactly what we’re doing?” Victor bites at his collarbone, exposed beneath the top button Yuuri left undone, and he draws in a sharp breath.

“We’re in public,” he mumbles.

“Who here will care?”

But Victor backs away enough that they can retain a somewhat more dignified composure. Yuuri isn’t sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved. There’s a funny ache in his limbs, which now more than after any amount of time spent at the studio seem stretched beyond their breaking point. And Victor’s right—he is shaking, and much too warm, and there’s something decidedly feverish about it all. Victor’s fingers burn holes into his waist.

“I’m gonna get some air,” he mumbles, and just like that he’s abandoned Victor in the middle of the dance floor, headed for the silhouette of the back exit.

It’s calmer outside, even with all the noise of a city night. He can still feel the pulse of the club music through the wall as he leans against it, but his thoughts are already becoming a little clearer, and his chest doesn’t seem so heavy. He breathes in slowly, trying to school himself back to quiescence. After a few minutes the door opens and someone falls into place beside him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Yuuri turns to look at Victor, scanning his face for any sign of offense, but his features convey only soft affection.

“Are you feeling better?”

“I wasn’t feeling bad before,” Yuuri says, “I just—

Victor nods. “It’s okay. The bar scene can be overwhelming. We can go, if you’d like.”

“No,” Yuuri says, “I’d like to stay, I think. I just need a moment.”

Victor nods again and is silent, leaving Yuuri to sort out his thoughts in his own time. After a while he finds it in him to speak.

“What that boy said earlier…

“It doesn’t matter, Yuuri. Forget it.”

“You don’t think he’ll cause trouble for you?”

“I doubt it. I’ve met his kind plenty of times before. Every one of them is a coward.”

There is a hardness in Victor’s voice that is unfamiliar to Yuuri, and beneath it unwavering conviction. That, at least, is nothing new. Yuuri takes his hand. Victor’s fingers tighten around his.

“You don’t need to worry,” he says, either to Yuuri or to himself. Yuuri leans his head against his shoulder, and Victor strokes his hair with his free hand. No words pass between them, staring out at the city; none need to. After a while, Yuuri pulls away.

“I’m ready now. Will you go in with me?”

Victor nods, pressing a light, fervent kiss to his forehead, and they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone’s wondering, the version of the pas de deux Yuri and Otabek are performing can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_uQGsYKe8EM), taken from a gala concert by Vaganova Academy in 2013 (the boy playing Actaeon is Alisher Kalibay, a Kazakhstani dancer from Almaty). Can’t you just picture them in those costumes? I would love to see Otabek in a toga tbh


	10. Chapter 10

When she first urged Sara to stand up to her brother, Mila assumed (perhaps naively) that it would mean the two of them would be able to spend more time together, and without the specter of Mickey’s ire falling between them. At the time, she mostly hoped it would make Sara happier. And it has. More than a month past the incident and Mila can honestly say Sara is the happiest she’s ever seen her.

From the two or three times she’s actually _seen_ her. Sara’s not so easy to find, these days.

It shouldn’t be surprising. The second half of spring semester is always the busiest time of year at the Academy. There’s the gala to rehearse for, not to mention extra practice for final exams, and that’s all on top of ordinary classwork. And the two of them aren’t even in the same year. Really, it’s a miracle they managed to find so much time to hang out in the fall.

Mila’s texted her on several occasions, and Sara’s replies are always enthusiastic, but periodically infrequent, and as much as she’s happier she’s obviously busier too. Mila doesn’t want to bother her.

“You’re not going to _bother_ her,” Anya says, shaking her head, when Mila confesses her fears. “She’s your friend. She’d probably love to hear from you.”

“If she wanted to talk to me so badly,” says Mila, “she would’ve done it already.”

Anya just rolls her eyes, grabbing Mila’s phone from her hands before she can yank it out of reach.

“Hey!”

Anya ignores her. She types something, shielding the screen from view, and then returns the device to its owner.

“There,” she says. “You’re welcome.”

Mila glances down. As she suspected, Anya has sent a message to Sara: _hey sunshine, how’s it going?_ She groans.

“How do you even know my passcode?”

“I know many things,” Anya says, mysteriously, though the effect is somewhat ruined by her Pikachu-print pajamas.

Mila’s phone lights up and Anya folds her arms, smirking. “Well?”

It’s Sara. Mila doesn’t say it, but Anya can tell from the look on her face.

“Told you so,” she says, and Mila frowns at her, unable to come up with a proper retort.

She’s at a studio session one day, going over her variation for the exhibition— _Giselle_ , act one, the title character. The pas ballonné at the end of the piece are relentless, and followed by the series of pirouettes…but it’s fun to dance, even if it is very classical. She works herself raw for a few hours under the direction of the headmistress herself, and coming out of the building spots Sara heading down the path. She falters a moment, and then waves. Sara waves back.

“Mila!” she says. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

Mila thinks of the most intelligent comment she can muster.

“Uh,” she says. Fortunately, Sara isn’t deterred.

“Will you go to dinner with me tomorrow night?”

They haven’t gone anywhere off campus together since that time they got coffee, and they haven’t seen each other outside the studio since the night Anya broke up with Georgi. Mila bites her lip.

“Are you sure? I know you’ve been wanting to get out since you…since what happened with your brother. I don’t want to encroach—

“Nonsense.” Sara takes her arm. “The two of us will hit the town together and celebrate our freedom. If you’ll come, that is.”

“Well now. How could I say no to that?”

That’s how twenty-three hours later Mila finds herself with empty drawers, clothes strewn across both halves of the room, surveying her options. From her perch on her bed, Anya raises her eyebrows.

“I’m saying this because I’m your roommate and I care about you. You seriously need to update your wardrobe.”

“A lot of good that advice does me _now_.”

“I’m sure you have _something_ appropriate.”

“I need something casual, but also classy,” says Mila. “Something that doesn’t have holes in it.”

“That might be a bit of a tall order.”

“It’s a fashion statement.”

“Who are you, Yuri Plisetsky?” Anya shakes her head. “Anyway, if you really can’t find anything, you’re welcome to borrow something of mine.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Mila begins to sort through the pile of button-down shirts. There are really too many of those, but somehow they’re all too formal or not formal enough, and she never wears half of them anyway. She has her fancy clothes for parties and other ballet-related events, her dance gear, and what she wears the rest of the time. There’s nothing in between, nothing for “I want to look nice but I don’t want it to look like I made an effort because then this will feel like a date and I want it to be a date but it isn’t, so.”

Okay, so maybe that’s a little specific. But her point still stands.

After what is really an embarrassing amount of time, Mila manages to scrabble together an outfit. Anya even nods her approval, and that has to count for something. She fixes Mila’s hair for her, sweeping it to the side and pinning it in place with a flourish.

“I have a good feeling about tonight,” she remarks.

“You’re not even coming,” Mila says.

“No,” she agrees, “but still. I think you’re going to have fun.”

“I hope so,” Mila says, “or I got dressed up for nothing.”

“One can never be dressed up for nothing. A reason will always present itself.”

As it turns out, Mila needn’t have worried. When she meets Sara on the front steps, the other girl has on a misty violet sundress, one that’s only a few shades lighter than her eyes, and matching heels. Suddenly Mila feels underdressed.

“You look nice,” Sara tells her, instead of hello, and that thought (along with all the others in Mila’s brain) dissipates.

“You too,” she says.

They eat out on the terrace of a little place Mila has never been to before, in all her years living in the city, and split a savory pirog, with a vatrushka each for dessert. They make pleasant, mindless conversation, and as the sun sets Mila assumes they’re just going to head back to the Academy, but Sara has other ideas.

“I told you we’d make a night of it,” she says, dragging Mila in the direction of a nearby club. And Mila doesn’t think this is a very good idea, but Sara’s determination—and that persuasive puppy-dog look she can do—is quite impressive.

Mila has never actually been to a club before. There’s no particular reason why. She doesn’t hate people, or crowds, or being unable to hear her thoughts over the blare of a generic “Russian pop’s greatest hits” soundtrack. And she thinks she’s actually a reasonably good dancer when she’s not practicing ballet, unlike some people she knows. But clubs have never really interested her.

They don’t interest her now, either, but there’s the sliver of a possibility of a dance with Sara, so she holds her tongue and allows herself to be led inside.

The lighting is predictably dim, and the music predictably generic, but Sara grabs her hand and tugs her out onto the dance floor, and Mila’s brain is too busy short-circuiting to keep up with her running snarky commentary.

“Have you been here before?” she asks, for something to say, and then winces internally because it sounds only slightly better than the ubiquitously terrible _come here often?_

Sara doesn’t appear to notice her discomfort.

“Once,” she says. “Emil brought Mickey and I here last year, but we left before midnight.”

“There’s still time for us to do the same.”

“Only if you give me a reason worth my while.”

Mila can think of several indecent replies to that remark, but refrains from saying any of them.

“Mila.” Sara slips her arms around her waist. “Dance with me.”

 _So soon_ , Mila thinks. She wonders if she should wish for a million dollars too, before her luck runs out. She doesn’t get the chance, because just then the beat shifts, and the lights drop lower. The back of Mila’s neck heats up as Sara moves in closer, not so close that their torsos are touching, but close enough that she can feel the space between them like a physical barrier. She sucks in a breath, trying to force her heart to beat normally again.

“Relax,” Sara whispers, lips brushing against her ear. “You’re so tense today, Mila.”

“Just stressed about school, I guess.”

“Mmhm.”

Sara gives her a smile like she knows exactly how full of shit Mila is. She takes careful hold of Mila’s hands, guiding them to her hips, and begins to sway slowly from side to side.

“You see?” she says. “It’s easy.”

“Easy,” Mila repeats. Her brain is a fog. All she can feel is the tingle of her fingers against the fabric of Sara’s dress. Numbly, she copies her friend’s movements, still too stunned for coherent thought.

She soldiers her way through the entire three minutes of the song, and is a little relieved when Sara breaks away from her as the beat picks back up again.

Sara doesn’t ask her to dance again, though as the evening wears on Mila finds herself loosening up a bit. By midnight she’s laughing along with her friend as they jump in time to the terrible pop music. When the next slow song comes on, Mila steels herself, and pulls Sara towards her. Sara looks up at her, faint surprise—and an even fainter blush—crossing her face. Mila takes a deep breath, working up the courage.

“Sara,” she says, “you can say no, but I’d like to ask you something.

Sara grins at her. “Is it about how was able to con you into coming here with me?”

Mila resists the temptation to roll her eyes, affectionately exasperated. “I’m trying to ask you—

“On a date? I thought we were.”

“No, Sara, I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

It takes a minute or two for the words to sink in.

“Oh,” Mila says, very softly, and Sara suddenly looks worried.

“Is that okay? I mean I didn’t want to presume or anything, but—

“Sara.” Mila’s hands tighten around her waist. “It’s more than okay. It’s…” Fantastic? Surprising? Months of wistful daydreaming come true? “…kind of hard to believe.”

Sara grins at her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Mila finds it in herself to smile too, the same kind of smile she often finds herself giving the other girl, but a little shyer, a little more dazed. “I’m happy this is a date.”

“ _First_ date,” Sara corrects. “But I’m open to a second.”

“We haven’t even finished this one yet,” Mila says, and she can’t resist a smirk. “Am I really so alluring?”

“Take me somewhere quiet,” Sara says, “and let’s find out.”

But they are reluctant to pull away from each other, and it isn’t until several more songs have passed that they find their way back out onto the street. It’s long past dark now, and Mila isn’t entirely confident she knows the way home, but Sara does, and that gives her an excuse to hold her hand for the journey.

“Otherwise I might get lost,” she says, batting her lashes teasingly. Sara smiles but says nothing.

They walk until they reach a lane shadowed by trees overhanging from a fenced-in park. There Sara draws her aside.

“Mila.” She stops. “I’m going to ask you something terribly silly. I hope you can forgive me for it.”

“Anything.” Mila doesn’t let go of her hand. Sara looks her dead in the eyes.

“Can I kiss you?”

In a perfect universe, Mila would take this opportunity to do something suave, slick her hair back and lean forward and _go for it_ , or else make some brilliantly charming, witty remark. As it is, she can barely manage a nod, remaining still with residual shock as Sara leans closer to her. She has to stand on her tiptoes to reach, which is more endearing than it should be.

“There were times,” she says, words shivering across Mila’s lips, “many times that I thought you were going to do this. But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t think you wanted to,” Mila whispers. “I didn’t know…”

“And now…” Sara presses her mouth to Mila’s own—delicate, soft, a breath of a kiss. She pulls away after barely a second. “Now you do.”

In answer, Mila twines her fingers through Sara’s hair, bringing her closer still, and kisses her again. It is much longer, this time, before either of them moves.

“Wow,” Sara murmurs, cheeks flushed and eyes shining.

“Was it everything you hoped?”

“You tell me.”

Mila tilts her head to the side, pretending to consider it, and Sara shoves her, laughing. She pulls Mila in by the shirt collar.

“Shut up,” she says.

And now—now it is a very long time indeed before they break apart.

“It’s late,” Mila murmurs, cradling Sara against her. “We should head back.”

“I don’t really feel like it.”

“Me either.”

“Maybe if we just start walking…

Neither of them does.

“We’re hopeless,” Sara sighs.

“Yeah.” Mila forces her feet to move. Sara tucks her arm through the crook of her elbow.

“So. Your thoughts on that second date?”

“I hear there’s a local band festival coming up next Friday night,” says Mila. “This hypothetical date of mine is welcome to attend, if she isn’t as busy as she’s seemed lately.”

“This hypothetical date of yours,” says Sara, “has been trying to go on dates with hypothetical people since freeing herself from the influence of her brother.”

“And has it worked?”

“Worked?”

“Have you found anyone you’d like to keep going on dates with…hypothetically…in the future?”

Sara smiles softly at her. “I have.”

Mila’s insides warm, and her gaze falls down on the pavement.

“Good,” she says. “Then I’ll see you Friday.”

“You know,” says Sara, later, when they’re climbing the dormitory steps once again, “I always wanted it to be you. Even before we started really talking last semester, I thought you were cute. I actually contemplated bribing Yuri Plisetsky to give me your number, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I was worried, for a while. I thought you were interested, but I didn’t know if you’d ever come around.”

“I was too afraid,” Mila says. “I thought…” She can’t help letting a quiet laugh escape her at the prospect, in hindsight. “I thought you liked boys.”

Sara shrugs. “Not exclusively. But I like you better than I like most boys.”

“I like you better than most boys, too.”

They’re indoors now, right in the middle of the brightly-lit hallway, which means a good-night kiss is really quite impractical.

They don’t let it stop them.

It’s late when Mila gets in—very late, but Anya is still up, curled beneath her comforter with a mug of tea to watch more of that soap opera she’s so fond of. She pulls off her headphones when she hears the door.

“So?” she asks.

Mila can’t help grinning. She doesn’t think she’s stopped since Sara said the word _date_ several hours ago.

“It was a good night,” she says.

“I told you it would be.” Anya smiles a moment, and it’s not even a little sarcastic, and then she hurls a pillow at her roommate. “Now get yourself settled and turn that light out so I can _go to bed_.”

* * *

“Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?”

Yuuri barely glances at the clock. “It’s only seven in Moscow. Shouldn’t _you_ be in bed?”

“Probably,” his sister says. “I’ve been busy. We have important guests staying at the onsen.”

“I’m sorry I have to miss it.”

“Don’t be. All it means is extra cleaning.”

“But if I was there I could help.”

“Yeah, well. You had to become a ballet dancer, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t _have_ to,” Yuuri starts, and Mari snorts.

“What, like Minako and Yuuko were going to let you ignore your talents and stay in Hasetsu all your life?” She smiles at him, then. “It’s okay, Yuuri. We’re getting along just fine without you.”

“I don’t think that sounds as encouraging as you meant it to,” Yuuri says, but returns her grin anyway.

“By the way,” she says, “Yuuko and I are thinking of flying out to watch you at the gala performance.”

Yuuri’s face flames up. “Y—you really don’t need—

“I _know_ I don’t need to, but I want a vacation, and Yuuko deserves one. She and Takeshi didn’t even get a proper honeymoon, instead they spend all their time looking after that damn ice rink.”

“Alright,” Yuuri says, and he’s smiling again, even if he is still embarrassed. “Just—don’t expect too much.”

Mari shrugs. “It’s not like we’ll notice if you mess up. Neither of us knows anything about ballet.”

“I guess.”

She stretches, looking over at the clock offscreen.

“I should sleep. Say hello to your roommate for me.”

“The roommate can say hello for himself.” Phichit steps in, closing the door behind him and waving at the screen. “Hi, Mari.”

“Hi, Phichit. Yuuri was helping me practice my English.”

“I can tell. It sounds good.”

“Thanks.” She turns her attention back to Yuuri, switching to Japanese. “I’d better go now. I’m supposed to be up early tomorrow to wait on those important guests.”

“Have fun.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fun. Of course. Till next time, Yuuri.”

He nods and signs off.

“Leo and Guang-Hong and I are going to a movie tonight,” Phichit says. “If you’d like to come.”

He offers the invitation more tentatively than he ordinarily might. The last time the four of them went to a movie together, Leo and Guang-Hong took the opportunity to get a little too friendly in the second-to-last row. They _are_ teenagers, Yuuri supposes, but he’s only a couple of years older than them and the incident made him feel like a parent and an awkward third-wheel rolled into one.

“Don’t worry,” Phichit says, “they promised to behave themselves this time. If you can trust their word, which…yeah okay, so it’ll probably end up like last time, but you should come anyway. We’ll sit in front of them.”

“As long as we don’t get back too late,” says Yuuri. “Victor and I have plans for tomorrow morning.”

Phichit perks up. “Oh?”

“Don’t get so excited. We always have plans for Saturdays.”

“And yet, as I seem to recall, you’ve spent the past two Saturday mornings moping because Victor was too busy to go out with you.”

“ _That_ is blatantly untrue.”

“Mmhm. So you’re coming?”

They meet their two companions at the theater. Both parties are wearing suspiciously guilty expressions, though Yuuri can’t tell if it’s “we did indiscriminate things in a storage closet” guilty or more along the lines of “just added vandalism to our list of hobbies.” Phichit’s phone is already out waiting, so Yuuri uses the opportunity to excuse himself for the bathroom.

The movie is in Russian, of course, but at least there are subtitles this time, so Yuuri can choose to concentrate on those instead of whatever might be happening in the row behind him.

“Honestly,” says Phichit afterwards, shaking his head. “They’re like a couple of teenagers, the pair of them.”

“Phichit,” says Leo, who is standing next to him, “we _are_ teenagers.”

“You’re a teenager too, technically,” says Guang-Hong, from Leo’s other side.

“Oh,” says Phichit, “right. Well then, carry on.”

The next morning Victor arrives too early, as usual, and as usual keeps his and Yuuri’s latest destination a surprise.

After perusing another pop-up marketplace and sampling the wares of the various food carts, Victor leads Yuuri to a narrow iron gate. They stroll through the garden together, small and squirreled away at the heart of the city, with bubbling fountains and mossy paths and plots of flowers just bursting into bloom. Yuuri still doesn’t know how Victor finds these places. They sit together on a bench by the side of a clear pool, watching a rainbow array of fish weave amongst the reeds below the surface. Victor holds his hand and tucks a lily behind his ear, and it’s all very sweet and very unusually chaste, as though Victor is being deliberately careful, though for what reason Yuuri doesn’t know. Perhaps it is merely that they are in public—even by themselves, there are eyes everywhere. It isn’t something Victor usually cares about.

Perhaps, Yuuri thinks, remembering the incident of that first spring day, Victor’s restraint is for his sake.

In the afternoon they have their exhibition rehearsal with Yuri.

Victor still won’t let them tell anyone else at the school any details about the performance. Phichit has been pressing Yuuri for information ceaselessly—Yuuri can’t tell if he thinks he’s been rehearsing with Victor all this time or sneaking off to have a sordid affair. It doesn’t matter either way; Phichit is not going to get the information he’s looking for until the night of the gala. Yuuri is determined on that front.

Surprisingly, Yuri Plisetsky has been showing similar dedication. His usual energy has been restored since the night he was kidnapped (but only, as it turned out, by Otabek Altin, so he could patch up Yuri’s feet like a gentleman). Victor made him take two whole weeks off rehearsal after he found out about the blisters, though Yuuri suspects he spent less time resting than practicing extra for his pas de deux. He still has a lot of lost time to make up for.

Now that Yuri has committed himself fully to his gala work, their rehearsals have kicked into top gear. They try to meet two to three times a week for as long as they can manage, running and re-running their numbers, honing and perfecting them to precision. Victor adjusts the choreography or their form, or gives instructions about the emotion he hopes to convey with particular movements. In this area, at least, Yuuri feels about as equipped as his second-year companion. Yuri might be working harder than ever, but he still flies into a rage as soon as Victor mentions the words “unconditional love,” and Yuuri’s attempts at eros feel pitiable at best.

“At this point,” says Victor, “I’m not worried about the choreography. You probably know it better than I do, by now. But this project isn’t going to work unless you can really connect to your themes and express them for the audience.”

“Maybe if you hadn’t given us such lousy subjects,” Yuri starts, but Victor cuts him off.

“I am not interested in whether or not you like the theme you’ve been assigned. We’re only a little over a month away from the exhibition—it’s too late to change now. So I want you both to spend some time reflecting on your own over the next few days about what eros and agape mean to you. You can use whatever methods you want. Scream obscenities at pigeons, if you have to, it makes no difference to me.”

That bit is obviously directed at Yuri, who scowls, but also seems to rather enjoy the possibility.

“The point is, I know you both have it in you to perform these pieces to their fullest potential, but it won’t happen if you can’t connect your body with your mind and your heart. Ultimately, that is what will make the audience remember you.”

After that they’re dismissed, and Yuuri gathers his things, starting for the door, but Victor holds him back.

“Yuuri. I would like to speak with you, if you don’t mind.”

Yuri takes one look at them both and vacates the studio as quickly as humanly possible. The sound of the door closing rings out loudly in the silence.

For a few moments they just stand and look at one another. Victor is wearing a funny half-smile, the kind that makes Yuuri’s stomach drop and skin tingle.

“What?”

“When did you become such a difficult person to get alone?”

“You’re one to talk,” Yuuri says. “Everyone at the Academy seems to be vying for your attentions.”

“Surely not _everyone_ ,” Victor scoffs, though he’s pleased.

“And anyway,” says Yuuri, taking a daring step forward, “why would you need to get me alone?”

“I always prefer to dance with you alone.”

“Then you’d better not waste your chance.”

Victor smiles in earnest, at that, though he still doesn’t move, considering him. Yuuri itches to fling himself into his arms, but he suppresses the urge. He will make Victor come to him.

Victor, of course, stubbornly insists on taking an excruciatingly long time. At long last he takes a solitary step forward, closing half the remaining distance between them, and raises a hand to Yuuri’s cheek. He smooths his fingers across the skin there, before bending down to burry his head in Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri wraps his arms around him.

“Every time I touch you,” Victor murmurs into his neck, pressing a soft kiss to the hollow where his collarbone meets his throat, “I feel like I’m burning up inside.”

Yuuri is locked in a fight against gravity; it takes everything he has not to melt into the floor.

“Sounds dangerous.”

He’s surprised at how level his words are. Victor’s lips graze across his jawline and he draws in a ragged gasp.

“We shouldn’t,” he says.

“Why not?” Victor whispers, breath hot against his skin. Yuuri shivers.

 _Because there’s too many reasons why it’s too much of a risk_ , he should say, but the warning gets stuck behind his teeth.

“Someone could walk in,” he says.

“And what if they do?” Victor takes a step back, snaking his arms around Yuuri’s waist. “We’re only dancing.”

Yuuri swallows, eyes flickering up to Victor’s too-casual expression. “Are we?”

“Show me your Eros, Yuuri.”

The way Victor says his name sends an electric current down his spine. He finds Victor’s hand at his side, threads their fingers together.

“I’d rather you showed me.”

“That’s not how a solo works.”

“I know.” Yuuri brushes his lips across Victor’s knuckles, and his cheeks tinge pink.

“A duet,” he says, eyes dark and voice low. “I could be convinced.”

Yuuri kisses the inside of Victor’s wrist, and he makes a small sound in the back of his throat— _a whimper?_ Yuuri wonders, heart racing. But Victor’s grip is loosening, and he moves away, until there’s half a meter of separation between them.

“Go on.”

“With what?”

“Your Eros.” His smirk should be made illegal. Perhaps it already has been, somewhere. “Seduce me.”

Victor isn’t playing fair—but then, Yuuri supposes he shouldn’t have expected any different. He closes the distance between them, trailing a finger along the outline of Victor’s cheek.

“If I do,” he says, “will you dance with me?”

Victor seems transfixed by his movements; carefully, as if afraid it might break, he grabs Yuuri’s hand, stilling him, and guides it down to his hip. “Consider me seduced.”

Yuuri leans in to rest his forehead against Victor’s, just briefly.

“Pushover,” he mumbles, and they begin.

It starts out almost ballroom—like a tango, although Yuuri can’t begin to imagine how he knows that. He never studied pair dancing beyond what was required of him. Their faces are close, only a hair’s breadth apart, and Victor’s gaze is so soft.

“Yuuri.”

He digs his fingers into Victor’s shoulder. “Say my name again.”

Victor grins at him. “I’ve missed doing pas de deux with you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri pirouettes and falls back into his arms. He isn’t wearing his pointe shoes, but there’s no helping that. It doesn’t matter, anyway. The gentle pressure of Victor’s chest against him is enough to make his movements as light as air.

And it’s true, someone could come stumbling into the room at any minute—the door isn’t open, but it isn’t locked either. And Yuuri knows he should probably be concerned about that, but there’s a certain thrill in the possibility for catastrophe. _Besides_ , he thinks, as Victor runs his hands down his sides, _we’re only dancing._

Yuuri is sure it’s his Eros routine they’re doing, even if the choreography is different. The heart of the piece is there, but the improvised step sequence is for the pair of them now, and not him alone. He thinks he likes it.

“Reflect on this,” Victor whispers, and twirls him around, lowering him for a final dip. They hold the pose for a few minutes, breathing heavy, the near-silence once again thick and insurmountable.

They back their bags slowly, reluctant to leave.

“We could go to Paris,” says Victor suddenly. “After you graduate. Or London. New York. Somewhere with a few prestigious ballet companies and no regard for discretion.”

Yuuri bites back half a smile.

“Victor,” he says. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re the least discrete person I’ve ever met.”

Victor shoots him a mock-pout. “I know. I have no idea how Russia forgives me for it.”

 _It’s because you make it so easy_ , Yuuri thinks. And managing to charm an entire country is no small feat, but Victor is talented enough to get away with it.

“I won’t be out of here for more than a year, anyway,” he says. “You only have a few months left.”

The _you should really think about what you’re going to do with your future_ is implicit in his statement. Victor sighs.

“I have options, I suppose. Lilia has already told me that the company would like to offer me a contract, and I’m tempted to take it. What do you think?”

Yuuri pauses, considering his words.

“You’re twenty-one, Victor. You’re too old to still be here.”

Perhaps it’s cruel, but it’s the truth, and Victor’s gaze doesn’t falter.

“I could do great things in Moscow. This country is one of the ballet capitals of the world.”

“You could do great things anywhere.” And he hesitates again. “I just want you to be sure of the reason you’re staying, if that is what you choose.”

Victor nods.

“I know,” he says, and sighs, looking off into the greying light of the afternoon. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t sure at first if I was going to switch away from Yuuri’s PoV and then I was like “Juliet you gotta do it for the ice lesbians” and honestly I’m so glad I did. Also @ Victor and Yuuri just get married already. Jeez, who’s writing this thing.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An overuse of the word "decision"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be the second to last, and after that the long-awaited Exhibition Gala begins. This fic has been such a joy to work on and I’ve loved writing it—I think I might actually be sad when it’s over, and it’s all because of all the lovely people who have supported me along the way—so as always, thank you all very very much <3

About a week later, inspiration hits Yuuri like freight train—not that he’s ever been hit by one of those, but the idea is so consuming he imagines it’s an apt, if rather hyperbolic, comparison. He seeks out Minako as soon as he has the opportunity.

“Yuuri.” Her tone is one of mild, pleasant surprise. “It seems like I hardly see you these days. What is it?”

“Do you have time?” he asks, a little hesitant. “There’s something I want you to teach me.”

She raises her eyebrows. “For my favorite student? I can make time.”

Yuuri takes a brief few seconds to send a message to Victor ( _meet me tonight in studio three, I have something to show you_ ) and straightens back up. He’ll probably regret everything later, but it’s too late to change his mind now.

They work for hours, right through dinner, barely pausing for breath.

“Yuuri,” says Minako, when they finally break for some water, “I have to ask: what is this for?”

“Would you believe me if I said I’m not allowed to tell you?”

“Maybe,” she says. “Rumor has it you and Yuri Plisetsky are working with our favorite fifth-year prodigy for a piece in the exhibition gala.”

Yuuri knows exactly who is to blame for these so-called rumors, because if Phichit hasn’t started them, then Christophe, Victor’s gossip-loving fifth-year friend, definitely has.

“And here the two of us have been working so hard to keep our mouths shut when it’s Victor who goes blabbing to Chris about it,” he gripes.

“I would never dare discuss such things with a student,” Minako says loftily, a blatant lie. “Even one so handsomely proportioned as Christophe Giacometti.”

Yuuri claps his hands over his ears, which have turned a violent shade of red. “ _Minako_!”

“What?” She grins. “He’s well past the age of majority, and he’s graduating in a month anyway.”

“It’s still weird.”

“You’ll notice I refrained from saying anything about a certain Victor Nikiforov.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Speaking of Victor,” says Minako, “you should probably go now, or you’ll be late to meet him.”

Yuuri has never figured out how she manages to always know these things, but he’s long since learned it’s easiest not to ask.

“Wish me luck,” he says, and she tweaks his nose affectionately.

“You don’t need it.”

And Yuuri isn’t sure he agrees with that, but he heads off anyway.

Victor is waiting for him when he arrives, and Yuuri slings off his bag, already hurrying to lace his pointe shoes.

“I want you to tell me how this looks,” he says. Victor arches an eyebrow.

“So much mystery from you today.”

“You’re the one who likes surprises.” Yuuri plugs his phone into the speakers and hands it to Victor, moving to the center of the floor. “Can you hit play for me?”

Victor obliges, and as the familiar melody fills the room his expression turns to puzzled curiosity. He doesn’t have time to make any comments, because at the first note Yuuri launches into his routine.

None of the alterations he’s made to the original choreography are drastic, but from the brief glimpses he’s able to snatch of Victor’s face, the manifestation of the change is profound. _Good_ , Yuuri thinks, throwing himself further into the music. _Can you feel my Eros now, Victor?_

Ballet has always been a rigidly gendered field. Here at the Academy they’re far less strict about such things, but out in the professional world it’s different, and even if Yuuri has been dancing pointe for more than a semester now the concepts of the old ways are so ingrained that they’re difficult to get rid of. That’s probably why it took him so long to think of this, because it should have been simple, really.

If he is to perform a traditionally feminine role, it can’t hurt to learn some traditionally feminine styles of movement. Even if these categories are constructs, it breaks him out of his usual habits, and that, he thinks, is what this program has so desperately needed.

It seems to be working.

Yuuri finishes the final spin with a flourish, hip cocked, head tilted to an assertive, alluring angle. For several moments, Victor is silent, and some of Yuuri’s confidence wavers. He drops out of the pose, fumbling over the fastenings of his shoes.

“How was it?” he asks. “I know it’s not exactly what you had in mind, but I thought I’d try it. If you don’t like it I can always—

“ _No_ ,” says Victor quickly, jerking upright in alarm. “I like it. Yuuri, I like it a lot. I think that style suits you.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri, and he gives a small smile of relief. “Good. I was focusing so hard on being just one kind of seductive before, but then I realized that wasn’t me. This feels…better.”

“It looks better.” Victor stretches out a hand, helping him to his feet. “Now I’m worried I’ll have to fight off half the audience to keep you.”

“Maybe I’ll meet someone who’s easier to put up with,” Yuuri teases, and Victor huffs.

“You’re mistaking me for my roommate.”

“No,” says Yuuri, looking him up and down very slowly, “I think not.”

A devious glint sparks in Victor’s eyes.

“Yuuri,” he says, “do you have plans for this evening?”

“I do now.”

“Good.” Victor takes his hand. “Come back to the room with me.”

Yuuri grins at him. “What do you have in mind?”

“My dear Yuuri, do you really need to ask?”

The room is empty when they arrive. Victor flicks on the lamp, which gives the crowded space a bit more ambiance, and pulls out his phone, smiling at whatever message has just come through.

“Yuri has informed me he’ll be spending the night at Otabek’s.”

“In that case,” says Yuuri, “I can stay a little longer.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Victor guides him to a seat at the edge of the bed, though he himself remains standing.

“I need a shower,” he decides. “Are you coming?”

Yuuri flushes. “ _Victor_.”

He grins impertinently. “No harm in asking, right?” He grabs a bundle of essentials off a hook on the wall. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

While he waits, Yuuri occupies himself with examining his surroundings. Even though he and Victor have known each other for a while now, he hasn’t often been in this room. From the decoration alone it’s immediately apparent that two very different people live here. Yuri’s side of the room is lined with pictures of tigers and posters for various metal bands. Everything is loud and brash and garish, as though assembled specifically to batter the senses. Strangely enough, it’s all uncannily tidy.

Victor, by contrast, is a little messier, and a lot more muted. He favors pastels for his color scheme, mostly pale, misty blues, with fine satin sheets and velvet drapes. Very few pictures adorn his walls, and those that do are abstract and nonspecific, pieces of art that add personality to the room but say little about the personality of their owner. There is a framed picture of a curly-haired puppy on his bedside table, and another of two people that could be his parents.

The door opens, and Victor steps back into the room. Yuuri straightens up, a little guiltily, trying not to look like he’s just been snooping through his friend’s things. He catches sight of what Victor is wearing and has to hold in a smirk. Victor, noticing Yuuri’s expression, pauses as he’s toweling off his hair, arm lowering slowly to his side.

“What?”

Yuuri tries to keep a straight face. “You’re wearing a silk bathrobe.”

“I never knew silk bathrobes were such an unusual commodity.”

“It’s nothing. Just…something between Phichit and me.”

“I wasn’t aware you and Phichit were on such close terms.”

Yuuri’s cheeks redden slightly. “Must you turn everything into an innuendo?”

Victor shrugs gracefully. “Chris’s poor influence, I’m afraid. We’ve been hanging around each other far too long for either of us to ever be considered appropriate.”

“Who says you have to be appropriate?”

Victor’s eyebrows raise high enough to meet his (totally not receding, he’s only twenty-one) hairline, and a sly smile flirts its way across his face.

“If that’s really what you want,” he says, lowering himself onto the bed next to Yuuri.

“Of course,” Yuuri says, though sometime between now and his last statement the beating of his pulse has grown ragged, and he finds it difficult to muster much more than a whisper. Victor leans in towards him.

“You must know,” he says, trailing his finger along Yuuri’s jawline, “I find you quite…” He guides Yuuri’s chin up to meet his own. “ _Distracting_.”

“You’re somewhat of a distraction yourself,” Yuuri murmurs, and Victor grins, mouth so close Yuuri can almost feel the movement of his lips.

“Only somewhat?” One of his hands works its way under the hem of Yuuri’s shirt, teasing at the bare skin beneath. “I must be slipping.” He traces a soft, slow pattern into the base of Yuuri’s spine, fingers feathery and deliberately suggestive. A shiver ripples across Yuuri’s back.

“What do you think? Am I losing my touch?”

Yuuri draws in a thin, shuddery breath. “If there’s one thing you haven’t lost, it’s the ability to touch.”

Victor’s grin grows wider. “No?”

“Another one of those things you’re very good at,” Yuuri says, cupping his hand gently around Victor’s neck. Almost of their own accord, his eyes flutter shut.

The press of Victor’s lips against his is light, at the start, as if their first kiss is an exquisite, fragile thing. The hand beneath Yuuri’s shirt moves lower, ushering him closer. Victor’s eyes, when he pulls away, are full of warm devotion, and a lump wells up in Yuuri’s throat.

“Is this okay?” Victor asks, and Yuuri nods.

“Good.”

Victor smiles him at gently, and then pushes him back against the mattress. Yuuri registers his head hitting the pillows with a dull thud, for the moment much more concerned with Victor throwing one leg over him to straddle his lap, grasping at the collar of Yuuri’s shirt as he bends down to bury himself in his neck. Yuuri’s breath hitches in a half-realized gasp, and he knots his fingers through Victor’s hair, head falling to the side as Victor leaves a trail of kisses across his throat.

He’s facing Victor’s nightstand, now, and this time his eyes land on something he neglected to notice earlier—a letter, bearing a very familiar seal at the top. He sits up, and Victor draws back, brow furrowing.

“Yuuri?”

His heart is pounding again, though for an entirely different reason than before. He’s not sure he likes the look on Victor’s face—far too serious, for him—and understanding dawns on him.

“Otabek isn’t the only one who received a letter from the Mariinsky.”

Victor stretches a tentative hand to his shoulder.

“I don’t want you to think this is something I kept from you intentionally,” he says, sliding off him to come to a shaky stand. “It only came a few days ago. I’ve had—several. Letters, I mean. From various companies. I’ve been discussing my options with Lilia.”

Yuuri looks up at him. “And have you come to a decision?”

For the first time Victor doesn’t meet his eyes.

“No,” he admits. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“What do you want to do?”

“What do I want?” A flash of a smile steals across Victor’s lips. “I want to move to a cozy little one-bedroom house in Hasetsu, Japan with a poodle and a garden, which I tend to every day as an excuse to spy on my cute neighbor.”

“Victor, I’m serious.” Yuuri pauses. “Cute?”

“Very. Even if he doesn’t always realize it. And one day we will both be working in our gardens, minding our own business, when suddenly we look up and see each other through the shrubbery. And so it begins.”

“And your ballet career?”

“Nonexistent. I’ll take up work at the local florist’s.”

“Inspiring as your imagination is,” says Yuuri, “you may need to be a bit more pragmatic in your plans.”

“I don’t often plan,” says Victor. “I suppose on the night of the gala I’ll sign with whatever agent strikes my fancy at that particular moment and spend the next morning regretting it immensely.”

Yuuri folds his arms, lips pursed. “How can you be so cavalier about this?”

“Cavalier, my _darling_ Yuuri, is what I do.”

“It’s great that you’re a genius and can afford it, Victor, but not all of us are so lucky.”

Yuuri doesn’t know why he feels so upset all of a sudden. Everything was going so well, before, but now it’s all soured around the edges. Victor drops to a seat in his desk chair, folding his arms.

“I can’t give you whatever it is that you want from me,” he says tiredly, and adds a quieter _not this time_.

Yuuri glares at him. “I don’t _want_ anything. I just think that somewhere down the line this lack of direction is going to get you in trouble.”

“If that’s the case, then I should send a reply to the American Ballet Theater in New York, tell them I’d love to join their company and never come back to this city. Would you like that?”

“You know I wouldn’t.”

“But I’d be going in a particular direction.”

“That’s not fair.”

“ _Nothing_ is fair.” Victor brushes his bangs back with a weary hand. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this tonight.”

Yuuri sighs. “What would you do instead?”

Under ordinary circumstances, Victor would probably attempt to smooth the situation over with a grin, but he can’t seem to manage one.

“Kiss you, and forget that there’s anything else to be done.”

Yuuri swallows, looking down at his hands. “This isn’t something you can fix so easily.”

Victor is quiet a long moment.

“I know,” he says, gravely, and kneels at his feet. Yuuri turns his head away, and Victor lifts his hand off the mattress, bringing it to his lips.

“I’m sorry, Yuuri,” he murmurs against his knuckles. Yuuri closes his eyes.

“I know,” he says. “Me too.”

“If I go away,” says Victor. “I’ll come back. I promise.”

“You need to do what’s best for your career.” And the thought burns in his mind, although he doesn’t voice it. _You can’t afford to worry about me, Victor._

Victor is still kneeling in front of him. He releases Yuuri’s hand, and Yuuri feels him rest his chin against his thigh.

“Why does acting like an adult have to be so difficult?”

Yuuri strokes the top of his head. “I don’t recall anyone ever telling me it was going to be easy.”

“That’s hardly the same thing.”

“Perhaps.” Yuuri opens his eyes. “That floor is going to be murder on your knees.”

“I like to kneel for you,” Victor says, serious, and gives a small bow as if to prove it.

Yuuri grabs his hands, lifting him up, and Victor sinks down next to him, leaning his head against Yuuri’s shoulder.

“Since you’re in the mood to make promises,” says Yuuri, “will you promise me that you really will think about what you’re going to do after you graduate? I would like—

He stops, unsure if the request is too much.

“I would like to know what you decide,” he says.

Victor kisses his cheek. “You’ll be the first to know.”

“I don’t need to be the first. I just want to be informed.”

“You will be.” Victor squeezes his hand. “I _promise_. Does that satisfy you?”

“For now.”

“Then I suppose that’s good enough.”

“Good enough.” Yuuri bites his lip. “You can go back to kissing me now, if you want.”

And when Victor smiles it’s only a little sad around the edges.

“It’s all I want,” he says, achingly sincere as always, and Yuuri wraps his arms around his waist, pressing himself closer.

* * *

The shopfront is monochrome, nondescript. A simple awning flutters over the door, with a sign beneath proclaiming the restaurant’s name in an understated font, blurred by streaks of rain. Through the window, Yuri can just barely make out the image of a figure at the register, passing change to a customer over the counter.

_Found you._

It’s taken him a long time—two whole days, plus most of the connections he has left with the Academy’s primary gossips—to track his target down. He puts a hand to the pocket with his phone, and by extension his only camera, to reassure himself before stepping inside.

Otabek stands behind the counter, wearing an assemblage of colors as gaudy as the outside of the building is drab, buffered only slightly by the covering of a white apron. He’s preoccupied with ringing up another customer, but when that job is finished he looks up, absently, and happens to catch Yuri’s eye.

After the shock passes, he looks for a moment like he can’t decide whether to publicly recognize his friend or staunchly pretend they don’t know each other. He settles on a small, sheepish wave, and Yuri walks up to him, biting back a smile.

“That uniform is quite the look,” he says. Otabek leans forward across the counter.

“Say nothing,” he murmurs, finger to his lips.

“I am _so_ getting pictures of this for blackmail.”

“Traitor.” Otabek grins at him. “What can I get you?”

“Black tea,” Yuri decides, pulling out a crumpled fistful of bills. “How much?”

“It’s on the house.” Otabek presses a few buttons on the register and grabs a mug. “Go find a table. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Yuri chooses a booth near the back, glancing surreptitiously over a printout of the menu as he watches Otabek brew two cups of Keemun with the samovar. Outside rain streams down the window, glass foggy from the heat of the restaurant, the lamps overhead casting their muted reflections across the panes. This sort of lighting has always suited Otabek, Yuri thinks absently—warm and soft, like whatever lies beneath his tough exterior.

He’s transfixed enough that he doesn’t realize Otabek has come out from the kitchen and is now standing in front of him.

“Black tea,” he says, “as requested.” He sets the tray on the table and slings off his apron, sliding to a seat across from Yuri. “I have fifteen minutes before my break’s up.”

“How long have you been working here?”

“Since they finished processing my permit at the beginning of the semester. It was about time, too.”

“Why?”

Otabek levels him an amused look. “Who do you think pays my rent?”

Yuri’s gaze sinks to his mug. “I never really thought about it.”

“It’s not as if it’s something you need to worry about.”

“Otabek.”

The other boy grunts, taking another sip of his tea.

“Who does pay your rent?”

Otabek is quiet a long moment, and Yuri worries he’s offended him.

“I do,” he says at last, and it’s in answer to an unspoken question as much as it is to the one Yuri voiced aloud. Yuri bites his lip.

“How long?” he asks, hushed.

Otabek shrugs. “Since I came here. Since before then, too, in a way.”

Yuri’s fist clenches beneath the table.

“That apartment,” he says. “It’s more than just a money thing.”

“It’s always just a money thing,” says Otabek, and sighs. “But it doesn’t hurt to have a place to spend the summer.”

“You can stay with us this year,” says Yuri, too resolute to be self-conscious. “My grandfather would love to have some more company around.”

Otabek shakes his head, modest.

“I have a place,” he says. “But…I can visit you sometimes. If you’d like.”

“Sure. I’d hate for you to go crazy, cooped up in that dump all by yourself.”

They drink their tea in silence. Yuri swirls his around in his mug, appetite suddenly vanished. There’s something else plaguing his brain.

“After this summer,” he says. “Have you thought more about where you’ll end up?”

“It’s still too soon to make any decisions. I will see after the gala if I’ve managed to get the attention of any scouts. If there aren’t any offers I like, I’ll stay on at the Academy for another couple years.”

“And if there are?”

“Goodbye, Moscow.”

“That’s the way it should be.”

“Maybe.”

Otabek has finished his tea; Yuri’s mug is still only half empty. There aren’t many customers in the restaurant—it’s near closing time, and Yuri wonders if he should just stick around until Otabek gets off. He’s tempted ( _too_ tempted, a voice in his head needles) to spend another night at his friend’s apartment. That’s been happening more frequently lately, a side effect of all their rehearsals together. Sometimes it seems easier, after hours in the studio, to just hop on Otabek’s motorcycle and tour the city a while in silence. They always find their way back to his place, eventually, and by then it’s late enough that heading back to the Academy feels pointless.

Otabek never says anything about these intrusions into his private life. Instead he accepts them quietly and without comment, merely passing Yuri a helmet at an opportune moment, lending him a toothbrush from the drawer beneath his sink.

“I should get a drawer of my own,” Yuri has taken to joking, though in truth he’s afraid of the ramifications of that statement, were it to be taken seriously. So all Otabek keeps for him is the toothbrush, and an open door. There’s no longer any question of who will sleep where—the moment they get in the building they’re racing up the stairs, winner gets his choice of arrangements.

Once, only last week, Yuri was the victor of their competition—an infrequent enough occasion to provide some cause for gloating.

_What if we both took the bed?_ he remembers saying. Teasing, then—of course teasing—but he hasn’t forgotten the look in Otabek’s eyes at the words: that solemn, rueful smile that never quite reaches his lips. Yuri has caught him wearing that expression before, always when Otabek thinks he isn’t looking. It makes his stomach twist and his heart start hammering in a way he prefers to ignore.

They didn’t end up sharing the bed, but somehow Otabek managed to wrangle the couch out from under him, in spite of Yuri’s protestations. And for a long time, sleep would not come.

Right now, that night still lingers between them. There are many things they never speak about with each other. This is one of them.

There’s another thing, too.

Last month, Yuri turned seventeen with very little fanfare. Victor pestered him about it a bit, and Mila took him for coffee. Afterwards he went over to Otabek’s apartment (of course) and the two of them attempted to make a cake. Their efforts were only marginally successful—really, Yuri shouldn’t have left Otabek in charge of anything important (“But you make bread all the time!” “That’s not the same thing”), but the other boy had insisted, and the cake tasted alright, at least. And after that, lying on the couch together, Yuri fell asleep with his head in Otabek’s lap, and woke up with his hair plaited perfectly into a single braid.

The two of them, of course, have not mentioned any of this since. Otabek’s taciturn nature makes it so easy to fall into this pattern of silence—or maybe that isn’t quite fair. Yuri has to shoulder some of the responsibility for himself. He knows, and doesn’t want to admit that he knows, that part of this whole not-talking thing springs from some selfish, scared impulse to quash the stirring inside him, and whatever it might imply.

“My break will be up soon,” says Otabek.

Yuri knocks back a sip of tea. “When do you get off?”

“Soon. It depends how quickly we can clean up.”

“Then you’d better work fast.”

“The bike’s out back.”

Otabek kicks him out so he can finish up, and Yuri leans against the brick wall next to the motorcycle, headphones jammed over his ears. It’s stopped raining, and now the blurred imitations of streetlights stare at him from remnant puddles.

Eventually, Otabek pushes through the back door, locking it behind him.

“I don’t have an extra helmet.”

“I like to live on the edge.”

“It’s your funeral.” Otabek throws a leg over the seat, gunning the engine. “Which I won’t be going to, by the way, if you get yourself killed over this.”

“Noted.”

Yuri climbs on behind him, arms wrapping tightly around Otabek’s waist. This too is part of the routine—a matter of safety, to give them some small manner of assurance that he won’t fall off. They’re both used to it by now, and yet.

They drive aimlessly, with no real destination in mind. It’s dark, but not yet late enough that they need to think about heading back to the Academy, or wherever else. And even if it were, Yuri wouldn’t have been able to find it in him to care. Not tonight.

Eventually, they pull over at the mouth of a narrow alley and dismount to walk a while. Krymsky Bridge is just ahead of them, so that’s where they go. They sit side by side in the pedestrian lane, legs dangling over the edge through the metal bars. It’s the only suspension bridge in the whole of Moscow, which is mordantly fitting: here they are, the two of them, suspended. Indefinitely. Around them, the city carries on with its usual business.

“The world looks so big from out here.”

Yuri can only find it in himself to nod.

“At the end of this summer,” says Otabek, “it is unlikely I’ll still be here.”

“So you have made a decision.”

“I don’t want to be presumptuous.”

“But you do want to join with a company that isn’t the Moscow International Ballet.”

“Yes.” Otabek sighs. “No. It’s more complicated than that.”

“I have time.”

“The Academy—I wouldn’t trade the education I’ve received here for the training anywhere else. But we’re very modern, for a classical institution, and that means we will always be relegated to the fringes of the more prestigious circles.”

“There’s no arguing with tradition.”

“Not if you want to go anywhere that counts.”

“I thought you didn’t set much stock in all that.”

“Maybe not, but the rest of the world does, and if I want to get a job then I have to play by their rules, at least for a little while.”

And Yuri wants to say that the rest of the world is stupid, but it sounds childish even in his thoughts, and isn’t he supposed to be seventeen now?

“I have to have a future,” Otabek says, voice quiet. “Keep moving forward. I think that’s something you more than most people can understand.”

Yuri nods. There is no need for them to discuss the sacrifices they are willing to make for their careers—they have always known, without ever having to say it, that ballet comes first, no matter the friendship between them. Neither of them is in this business to be content with anything less than greatness.

“So you’ll be respectable for a while,” says Yuri. “Follow tradition, do what they tell you to do, even if it goes against what’s in your heart. And then?”

“Then I’ll be big enough that they won’t care if I break the rules a little.”

“Change the system from the inside.”

“The Academy has been trying to change it from the outside long enough. Maybe it’s time for a change of tactic.”

It starts to rain again, only a drizzle, trailing its way down from the muddy clouds to the surface of the river below. Neither boy moves. Yuri lays his hand over Otabek’s, resting idly on the pavement between them.

“Beka,” he says, faltering a moment. “I think you can do it.”

Otabek nods, his gaze turned to the choppy surface of the water. Yuri hunches his shoulders against the misty chill of the air.

It’s April 29th. The night of the Benois de la Danse, held as always right here in Moscow. The Academy has been in an uproar about it this year—Minako Okukawa, the teacher from the same hometown as Katsuki, is being honored for a performance she gave with the company last summer. It’s one of the most prestigious decorations a dancer can receive, and Madame Okukawa isn’t the first staff member to win it—back in her day, Lilia Baranovskaya was granted the same distinction. There’s a picture of the ceremony hanging in the main hall.

And no matter how many of their dancers garner awards like this, Yuri knows Otabek is right: the stuffy world of classical ballet is always looking for something new—but not _too_ new. Not new like the style the Moscow International Ballet so boldly espouses. It makes Yuri wonder—and wonder why the thought never occurred to him before—what reason Madame Baranovskaya had all those years ago, to leave her distinguished position with the Bolshoi and pick up here.

Otabek stands, tearing his gaze away from the river to face Yuri, who clambers to his feet. They remain opposite one another, close but still separate, as though waiting.

“Back to the Academy?” Otabek asks, at long last.

“Not yet,” says Yuri. He hazards a step forward, fingers idly tracing their way along the zipper of Otabek’s leather jacket. His friend is still, eyes steady as they take him in, and Yuri swallows down a strange and newfound trepidation.

“I’d like to ride some more,” he says, “if you’re okay with that.”

It’s too polite a request, at least for him, but Otabek, like the good friend he is, has the grace not to say anything about it. He climbs back on the bike, and Yuri hops up behind him. He buries his head in Otabek’s back as they speed away, and for the first time in a very long while, he almost feels like crying.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really sorry about the delay! I’ve been having some technology issues that left me without a computer for most of the past week, but I promise that I haven’t forgotten about this fic. I will be postponing next week’s update to Friday, March 10th so that I won’t have to rush the last chapter. In the meantime, I made a quick little sketch of Otabek and Yuuri in their gala costumes [here](http://creedoftheseamstress.tumblr.com/post/157916324869/who-does-fanart-for-their-own-ballet-au-me), so if you’d like you can check that out as well.

Mila faces the back wall, eyes catching briefly on the flash of movement—her own—in the mirror that runs parallel to her left side. She does the usual sets of pliés, first-second-fourth-fifth position, then battements: tendus, dégagés, fondus, frappés. Next there are ronds de jambes, à terre and en l’air, then more battements, petits and grands.

She steps away from the barre, centering herself, and chooses a mark on the opposite side of the room to be her focal point. She crosses the room with a series of piqué turns, then chaînés, then pirouettes. After she’s satisfied that she’s run enough drills, she starts in on her gala piece.

It’s probably a crime, as an eighteen-year-old aspiring classical ballerina, but she’s never actually seen _Giselle_ in its entirety. She skimmed through the summary on Wikipedia when Madame Baranovskaya told her class they needed to research their parts, but beyond that she’s woefully underinformed. She likes to think this will give her an edge: the crowd will applaud her fresh take on an old solo, and none of them will realize it’s because she actually has no idea what she’s doing.

There’s a knock at the studio door.

“Come in!” she calls, a little surprised in spite of herself. She must have rehearsed for longer than she thought.

Sara steps into the room, grinning at her. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but it’s time.”

“I figured.” Mila crouches down, unlacing her shoes and stuffing them back in her bag. Sara goes to her.

“I could just join you instead.”

“Tempting as that is, you’re the one who told _me_ you want to do this.” She stands, taking Sara’s arm. “Besides, I already put my gear away.”

“You make a compelling argument.” Sara runs a hand through her hair, smoothing it back. “No point wasting anymore time, I suppose.”

They mount the steps to the dormitory together, pausing outside a room at the end of a second-floor hallway. Sara is subdued, and Mila turns to face her.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.” She takes a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. “I know, but I want to.”

“I’ll be right here with you.”

Sara nods, and knocks on the door. It takes a few moments to open, but when it does they’re in luck: Mickey is in, and he’s alone.

“Sara.” His expression is a strange cross between fleeting hope and righteous indignation. “What are you doing here?”

“I have something to say to you. May we come in?”

She steps over the threshold without waiting for his response. He backs into the room, standing against the opposite wall. He doesn’t sit, or offer them a seat, but Mila notices him fiddling with the cuff of his shirt, an apparently nervous gesture.

“What did you want to speak to me about?” He eyes Mila, a second question regarding the nature of her involvement evident on his face.

“Before I tell you,” Sara says, “you have to promise you’ll remain calm. No instantly leaping to my defense, okay?”

“I just want—

“ _Okay_?”

He sighs. “Fine.”

“You sure?”

“I’m calm, Sara, I’m calm.”

“Because the last time—

“I said I was calm, didn’t I?”

“Right.” She draws in another deep breath, looking him full in the eye. “Mickey. I’m dating someone.”

He stares at her, mouth agape, for a solid half minute.

“ _Who_?” he manages to splutter out, at long last. “Is it anyone I know?”

Sara squeezes Mila’s hand. “You’re looking at her.”

He frowns at them. “I don’t understand.”

“Mila is my girlfriend now. I thought I would let you know because you’re my brother and I want to be able to share important life events like this with you.”

He clenches his jaw closed, recovering himself a little.

“I thought you weren’t speaking to me.”

She sighs. “I just want a little space. That’s something we’ve never had before. But that doesn’t mean we have to stop talking.”

“But you don’t want me around anymore!” He folds his arms, glaring at her. “You can’t tell me you want your independence and then come running back.”

“Yes I _can_ ,” she says, exasperated. “And I’m not running back. You see, this is what always happens when I try to have a reasonable discussion with you.”

Now it’s his turn to sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he says, as though the words pain him, but it’s an apology, so it’s a start. He hesitates, and then: “Tell me about your girlfriend.”

Sara’s face breaks into a radiant, fully genuine smile. “I’ll let her tell you herself.”

Mila knows this is her cue to do something, so she steps forward.

“We’ve met a few times,” she says. “Mila Babicheva. I’m a third-year at the Academy.”

“And are you planning on shattering my sister’s heart into a thousand pieces?”

Sara’s face goes scarlet. “Mickey!”

“Force of habit. I’m serious, though. You’d better not even think of mistreating her.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“I can take care of myself,” Sara grumbles, and even if Mickey doesn’t believe it, Mila definitely does.

“What about you?” Sara directs her attention to her brother. “Have you been seeing anyone lately?”

He scowls. “No.”

“Maybe you should. It might loosen you up a little.”

“I don’t need to loosen up!”

“Whatever you say.”

His face softens, just a little. “I’m happy for you.”

Sara smiles again, gentle, and pulls Mila’s hand back into her grasp. “I’m happy for us too.”

“You should go now. I have homework to finish.”

“It’s almost finals.”

“So? That doesn’t change anything. You do too.”

“Fair point. We’ll leave now.”

He bows them out almost cordially, closing the door after them. On the whole, Mila thinks, it went rather well.

“He took that much better than I thought he would,” Sara confesses to her, as soon as they’re back in the hall.

“Maybe he’s learning.”

“Maybe. I can always hope.” Sara tugs her forward. “Now come on. You have studying to help me do.”

* * *

Almost as quickly as spring has arrived, it becomes summer.

Yuri is with Otabek at his apartment (and when is he not, these days?). They’re out on Otabek’s balcony together, which isn’t really built for two but the structural integrity doesn’t seem compromised yet, leaning against the rails to peer into the hazy twilight.

“We’ve got to stop doing this,” Yuri says.

Otabek quirks a curious eyebrow at him, but doesn’t reply.

“We’ve been standing out here for half an hour without saying a single word to each other.”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

“No.” Yuri nudges him. “But aren’t we wasting time?”

“What’s to waste?”

Yuri opens his mouth to give an indignant answer, but Otabek cuts him off.

“If you’re bored,” he says, “we could always try doing something else.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Otabek opens the screen door, disappearing inside for a moment, and drags a stool out of the bedroom.

“Sit here,” he says.

Curious, but not concerned, Yuri does as he’s asked. ( _That’s a first_ , Victor’s annoying voice prattles in his mind, unbidden, and he wishes it was possible to glare at his own thoughts.)

Otabek has poked his head back into the bedroom again, this time returning with a brush and a hair tie. This time it’s Yuri’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

“Beka?”

“Hold still.”

He shrugs and turns back around, eyes closing as he feels the brush slide through his hair. He’s never really been fond of combing through it himself—it tangles too easily, and then he gets frustrated, which only escalates the situation. Right now it isn’t so bad. He feels almost relaxed.

After a few minutes, Otabek replaces the brush with his fingers, sorting out the knots with patience and quiet attention. Once this task is through, he goes about separating Yuri’s hair into three distinct segments. Yuri expects him to fumble about a bit, but he finishes the job surprisingly quickly, and when Yuri reaches back to feel the braid, it’s pulled together in a sturdy hold.

“Where’d you learn to do that?”

“I used to do my sisters’ hair,” he says. “I don’t want to boast, but I became rather good at it.”

“I noticed.” Yuri spins around so they’re facing each other, Otabek towering close above him on the thin strip of balcony floor. “Tell me about them.”

Otabek pauses, pursing his lips a moment.

“Okay,” he says. He leans against the railing, arms resting atop the metal bar and eyes dark with the reflection of the sky. Yuri says nothing, allowing him to approach the subject in his own way, in his own time.

“I left home to come here,” Otabek says, or perhaps confesses. It’s something he’s skirted around before, but this is the first time he’s voiced it aloud. “I haven’t been back since.” He pauses, and when he resumes his voice is a little quieter. “It’s better this way. I was able to leave on my own terms, and not someone else’s. They can still care for me from afar.”

“But not up close.”

“Up close, it’s easier to see who a person really is. That is something they refuse to acknowledge. By separating myself from them I give them the gift of denial, and their love remains untarnished.”

“That’s a painful way to live.”

Otabek doesn’t answer that. Yuri kicks the stool to the side and leans into him, just slightly, their bare shoulders brushed together, skin tingling beneath.

“I’ve only ever had my grandfather,” he says. “Maybe that’s why he’s willing to be more...forgiving of me. I don’t know what it’s like to make that kind of sacrifice.”

Otabek lapses into another of his brooding silences, and Yuri waits him out.

“Adiya will be finishing her final year of study at Al-Farabi,” he says. “She’s the brains of the family. She would always help Damira and I with our homework, when we were small. Damira—she’s my younger sister—is starting lycee in the fall. We never could tell whose footsteps she would be more inclined to follow—she loves music, like I do, and plays several instruments, but last I heard she was considering becoming a doctor. It was so long ago now. Perhaps she’s changed.”

Perhaps they have all changed. Time does funny things, Yuri knows. It has enabled Otabek to share this admission with him. He doesn’t say anything, afraid to cheapen the obvious act of trust, or wrap an arm around his friend to reassure him. They stand, shoulders touching, staring out at the city lights and the vast, starless sky ahead.

Eventually, Otabek stretches, pulling open the screen door to squeeze himself back into the apartment.

“Exams tomorrow.”

Yuri nods, following him.

“I should get you home.”

“I’m not in any hurry.”

It’s embarrassing, how reluctant he is to leave these days, but at least Otabek never says anything about it. Yuri wonders if he even notices.

“You need your rest,” Otabek says.

Yuri shrugs. “It’s just character and mime tomorrow. They’re easy.”

Otabek shakes his head. “You know, some people are actually worried about passing. Me, for instance.”

“You’ll do fine. You’ve really improved this year. The Mariinsky will be falling over themselves to have you.”

“ _That_ is a blatant exaggeration.” He takes one step, small and halfhearted, toward the helmet resting on a shelf next to the door. “It’s crazy to think that a week from now I might actually have a real job.”

“Not might.” Yuri pokes him. “ _Will_. You’re gonna do whatever it takes to land the best spot you can.”

Otabek grins at him. “That an order?”

“Yes.”

“Permission to give one in return?”

Yuri’s lips twitch. “Granted.”

“Let me take you home. I won’t have you complaining to me about ruining your sleep schedule the night before the first day of finals.”

Yuri knows he’s been defeated, and if it was anyone else he’d probably kick and scream a bit more, but it’s Otabek, so he just grabs his bag off the coat rack, grumbling. Otabek, being used to his frequent complaints, has the gall to keep his grin.

“You’re a spoilsport, Beka.”

“I prefer ‘pragmatic.’”

The Academy is close enough that it makes more sense to walk, but these days they take any excuse they can get to hop on the motorbike. Otabek has said that if he’s still around over the summer he can teach Yuri how to drive it. Yuri didn’t miss the ‘if.’

They pull up in front of the dormitory too quickly, dismounting slowly, and hold their places. Otabek leans against the bike, stalled at the curb, and Yuri stands across from him. He’s grown taller since September. Now Otabek only has an inch on him, and soon, Yuri thinks, not even that much.

“Good luck,” Otabek says. “Not that you’ll need it.”

Yuri finds his throat is dry. “Same to you.”

He can’t think of anything else to say, and as it seems, neither can Otabek. The other boy runs a hand through his hair, overgrown and in dire need of a trim, though Yuri finds he rather likes it. He stretches out a hand to push a disorderly coil back into place. Otabek’s usual style involves some degree of disarray, but lately he’s been slicking it back neatly on the days he has to work. It looks nice—a little too nice—but sometimes Yuri misses the old look. (This, of course, is another in the long list of things he’ll never say aloud.)

He realizes that he hasn’t moved his hand. He also realizes that he doesn’t have any intention to.

Otabek is staring at him, placidly enough, but there’s a new, heavy quality to his gaze. He’s still leaned up against the bike, but his weight has shifted ever-so-slightly forward, and his casual posture now appears carefully maintained. Yuri swallows, frozen for a moment, and then he feels the heat rush to his cheeks. He draws back his hand.

“I should get to bed,” he says, awkward and uncertain and annoyed at being reduced to both. Otabek gives him a half-smile, cocky and knowing and something else, something that can’t be named, and Yuri’s stomach drops.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Otabek says, the smirk evident in his voice, hoisting himself back onto the bike with ease. Yuri watches him kick the engine into gear, speeding away back down the road.

“Don’t forget to get some rest yourself!” he calls after him.

He isn’t sure if Otabek hears, but it doesn’t really matter. Yuri turns and walks inside.

* * *

Yuuri can’t say that final exam season is one of his favorites, out of them all.

He knows that no one, or almost no one, would say that they actually enjoy having to go through the finals, but that doesn’t offer any consolation for not wanting to take them.

“We’ll get it over with, and then we’ll celebrate,” Phichit says, resolute. “More katsudon, like last time?”

“I haven’t decided yet. What do you want to do?”

He shrugs. “I haven’t decided yet either.”

They’ll decide when they get there, Yuuri supposes. _If_ they get there.

They have their character and mime assessment on the first day. It doesn’t go too badly—Yuuri kind of likes character, although he’s never been sure about mime, which is one of Phichit’s favorites. That afternoon they have a written examination for their academic electives, and the next morning it’s general technique and historical dance.

They’re given that afternoon off, and after commiserating with Phichit for a little while, Yuuri goes looking for Victor. It’s a nice afternoon—a little warm for Moscow, but not the heat that he’s used to during a Hasetsu summer. Maybe they can wander the city together.

Victor, naturally, seems to have the same idea. He even has a location in mind—a nearby park, one they haven’t yet visited, with an ancient bubbling stone fountain and a lovely, tiny rose garden.

There’s not much space to stroll through, so after admiring the blossoming trees and the roses for a bit they sit together on a bench by the water.

“Do you remember when you used to ask me how I found all these places we go together?”

How can he forget? He posed that very question only last week, though at this point it’s mainly a formality, having long since given up on getting any real answer. Now Yuuri’s head perks up, and he nods.

“I’d been to all of them before, you know.” Victor’s voice is breezy and light, but a little too casual, as though he wants whatever his purpose is in broaching this subject to seem inconsequential. “In years past, I loved to explore the city. I never had much free time, but when I did...I wandered frequently by myself.”

And Yuuri understands this to mean that Victor didn’t have much choice other than to be alone, even with the group of regular training companions and the hoard of media representatives swooning at his feet, and used his exploration to fill the hours. He imagines Victor, face a few years younger and cascade of silver hair tied out of the way, riding the metro across the city, strolling through one of those tiny attic museums and poring over the brochure in his hands, or lounging on a bench to view a rose garden. It feels strange, after touring the same places together.

“People always said I was a prodigy.” Victor leans down, skimming his fingers across the surface of the fountain, gazing at the coins littering the tile below. “But none of that comes without hard work. Even natural talent goes to waste if you don’t train yourself. And I did—I trained hard enough that I forgot there was anything else, forgot how to be young. Even so, I never really learned how to be a grown-up either. It was always ballet, and only that.”

“You see yourself in Yuri Plisetsky.”

Victor shrugs helplessly. “How can I not? He’s dedicated, perhaps even more dedicated than I was. He’s certainly less easily distracted. But I worry sometimes. I don’t want him to make the same mistakes I did.”

“I’d advise you to try telling him that,” says Yuuri, “but this is Yurio, after all. Maybe it’s best he figures this out for himself.”

“For a while I was afraid he never would. But he seems to have made a friend in Otabek, and since then he’s getting along better with everyone else too.”

“Let’s hope they’re able to keep that friendship, no matter what happens next year.”

“I’m sure they will. Neither of them seems like the type to let a few hundred kilometers get in the way.”

 _Are we?_ Yuuri wonders. The sky is cloudless, a mass of soft, eggshell blue above them. The park is empty, save for a few birds pecking at the front gate, and the rustle of a squirrel in the branches overhead. They’re secluded enough that Yuuri feels he can rest his head on Victor’s shoulder, letting a short sigh escape him.

Victor presses a coin into his palm. “Make a wish.”

Yuuri passes it back. “We’ll make one together.”

And Victor kisses him, eyes closed.

“I’ve made mine,” he murmurs. “Will you do the honors?”

Yuuri tosses the coin into the fountain, watching it sink to the bottom.

The next day is the last of their final exams. In the morning he is assessed for pointe work and pas de deux, and it’s weird, partnering with someone who isn’t Victor, but the someone is Phichit, and at least Phichit is familiar to him.

All that remains for the afternoon is the physical evaluation. The students in his class line up alphabetically in the waiting room of the Academy’s medical office, as one by one they are called back to be appraised for bodily potential. Yuuri remembers (less than fondly) going through the same procedure at his callback for admittance. He hasn’t been looking forward to this, but he never looked forward to any of it, and it’s better than getting up and making a fool of himself in front of a panel of professors.

The line dwindles, and when his name is called he steps into the room just like the students before him, bearing with him as much confidence as he can muster.

The practitioner will run basic diagnostics, inspect the quality of his extension and the sense of line in his posture, measure the angle of his turnout. _Does it hurt_ , they will ask, and the universally agreed upon lie is no, no it does not, this is completely natural I can assure you. Yuuri has not been blessed with a surplus of flexibility, but he has enough training that the examinations are not an outright pain. He imagines it’s different for the likes of Victor and Yuri, or perhaps they’re simply better at hiding it.

They won’t let him see the results of his physical, but they must be acceptable, because he passes, and just like that the school year is over. Only one final challenge remains.

“We actually did it.”

Phichit collapses back onto the floor of their room, having claimed to be too exhausted from the exams to clamor up onto his loft bed, though Yuuri has never known him to be short on energy.

“Did you ever think we wouldn’t?”

“A couple times,” he admits. “You?”

“Yeah.”

Yuuri joins him on the floor, and for a while they contemplate the ceiling and the possibilities the future might hold.

“I hear fifth-years get all kinds of special treatment,” Phichit says. “Their pick of performance spots, more personalized instruction, career counseling from the headmistress herself. Did Victor ever say anything about all that?”

“I doubt Victor has had what either of us would consider a normal experience here.”

“That’s true.”

Phichit broaching the subject of Victor has reminded Yuuri of their conversation in the park the other day. There’s been an idea nagging at the back of his brain ever since, persistent but only half-formed—until now.

“Phichit?” he asks. The other boy hums to show he’s listening.

“I’d like to ask a favor. I need your help to organize something.”

They don’t have very much time, but between the two of them they manage to make all the necessary arrangements, and the night is upon them before they know it.

This time, it’s Yuuri who knocks on Victor’s door with a request that he accompany him on an adventure to a mysterious locale. Victor is delighted, and accepts the invitation without question, though that changes as they get closer to their destination.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” Yuuri says. “Now shush. We’re almost there.”

Victor puts a finger to his lips, signaling his silence, and smiles. Yuuri leads him down another block and turns, scanning the line of buildings ahead.

He stops at the door to the restaurant, taking a deep breath. A year ago—no, less than that, six months ago, or even four—he wouldn’t have had the courage to do this. It still makes him nervous, thinking about it, but he realizes he’s been looking forward to this evening. After the final exams—after everything—tonight will be a pocket of fresh air. And then the gala tomorrow, but for the moment, that can wait.

He pushes open the door, motioning Victor through.

“Walk up to the greeter and ask for the side room,” he instructs. “Say you’re here with Yuuri Katsuki’s reservation.”

“What are you up to?”

But Victor does as he asks, and after conversing for a moment in murmured Russian with the woman behind the stand they are led to an offshoot of the main dining hall, a smaller chamber with a large, round table at the center. Yuuri quickly makes note of all the faces. Everyone’s arrived, as planned. There are a few people he doesn’t really know very well, a few who weren’t explicitly invited, but that’s okay. Better for there to be more.

“Yuuri.”

He turns around, and sees that Victor has stopped behind him in the doorway, staring at the scene spread out in front of him.

“What is this?”

“A celebration,” says Yuuri, “of sorts. I was thinking about…what you said to me the other day, and about how grateful I am to you and to everyone else for supporting me this year, and I wanted a way to show my appreciation in return. Plus the school year is finally over, which is enough cause to throw a party. So Phichit and I planned a dinner for our friends so we could commemorate the end of the semester together.”

He pauses, then takes Victor’s arm shyly, guiding them to their seats. Phichit has taken up residence to Yuuri’s left, and he grins at their approach.

“It was all Yuuri’s idea,” he informs Victor. “I was thrilled to help. What could be better than food and friendship?”

“An opportunity to take embarrassing photos of your fellow dancers,” Leo says, on his other side, and Guang-Hong nods in agreement.

On Victor’s other side is Christophe, who Yuuri has only held one or two conversations with in his life, but Victor speaks amiably of him and they seem to get along well. Next to him is Mila, and next to her is a girl Yuuri thinks is one of the Crispino twins, dragged along as a plus one. They’re laughing together and paying no mind to anyone else at the table, while Yuri Plisetsky sits by, scowling. His scowl softens somewhat when his eyes land on the boy sitting next to him. Otabek Altin is another character Yuuri doesn’t know much about, but he knows the two of them are close, and as he sees Yuri actually smile at some comment Otabek whispers in his ear, he thinks it’s a good thing.

Georgi, as another member of the crew that Victor grew up dancing with, was invited, but graciously turned them down to go on a date. (He told Yuuri this with his eyes sparkling, some far-off dreamy look that was dangerously familiar to him, though he was used to seeing it on an entirely different face, and he decided not to ask.)

There are a few others, friends of friends lured by the prospect of a night out, but their chatter gives the atmosphere a pleasant, buzzing quality, and now Yuuri won’t have to feel pressured to make conversation with everyone just because he’s the one who brought them here. Instead, he can look on as people peruse the menus or launch into good-natured, fiery debates over trivialities, and smile softly to himself. Victor pokes his elbow.

“This was a good idea,” he says. “Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves.”

“Are you?”

“Without a doubt.”

“Good.” Yuuri picks up his menu, then realizes he can’t read most of it and sets it down. “I wanted this to be for you, too.”

“I know. Thank you.”

“What would you like to eat? We should be ordering soon.”

“Let’s have a look.”

Yuuri has another glance around the table while Victor surveys their options, chatting over the menu with Chris. Leo and Guang-Hong have pulled Phichit into a lively discussion on science fiction movies (“ _The King and the Skater_ is better than any of that!”), while Mila appears to be teasing Yuri. He scowls at her and spouts a torrent of what Yuuri imagines are his usual creatively colorful obscenities, while Otabek and Sara Crispino look on, and though they’re as different as any two people Yuuri has known, their smiles are identical. Everyone really does seem to be having a good time, and he feels a warm hum in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t know if he’d have gotten through the whole year without friends like these. It will all be over soon, he knows—in a few days, some of these people will have graduated, gone off to join professional companies of their own. Their lives change so rapidly, will always be changing.

For the moment, he is happy simply to be able to celebrate with them.

Next to him, Victor takes his hand beneath the table, tracing a pattern into his palm that stirs Yuuri’s heartbeat, and for a moment he is a teenager again, returned to a time when every emotion was exhilarating and illicit. It wasn’t very long ago that he was so young, and now he’s not old but he feels older.

Their food arrives, and all distractions (Victor-induced and otherwise) are put aside in favor of discovering whether the choppily-translated online reviews of this place were speaking the truth when Phichit and Yuuri went through them the other night. Yuuri takes a bite of a blintze and decides that they were.

All in all, it’s a nice evening, and when Victor pulls him away from the crowd returning Academy to kiss him, pressed up against the wall in the shadows of a side alley, it becomes even nicer.

“You know,” Yuuri says, as they’re walking back, “it still hasn’t really hit me that I made it. I’m actually going to be coming back here next year.”

“It hasn’t hit me that I _won’t_ be coming back.” Victor’s smile fades, replaced by a half-guilty look. “Or would you prefer if I didn’t talk about that?”

Yuuri shrugs. “Talk about it or not, it doesn’t change that it’s happening. I’m happy for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The smile peeks its way back onto Victor’s face, small and a little secretive, boyishly enthusiastic.

“I’m excited,” he admits. “I haven’t had this kind of inspiration in—well, I’ve got it back now, and I’m itching to see where it takes me.”

“Everyone says you’ll go far.”

“And what does Katsuki Yuuri say?”

“That you will most definitely go far.” He finds, somewhere in him, a smile of his own. “But not _too_ far. At least not for too long.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's just pretend I updated this ten minutes before midnight and not ten minutes after

As the night of the Moscow International Ballet Academy Exhibition Gala arrives, simmering with anticipation as always, Mila sits in front of the dressing room mirror, quietly finishing her make-up amidst the surrounding clamor.

She’s in the room for first through third-year girls, and it’s fine, if a bit noisy, but she wishes she could be with Sara or Anya right now—both for the moral support, even if each of their methods differs considerably.

Her piece is scheduled for the first act, near the end, which means she still has about an hour left. She makes use of this time by going over her choreography while the first-years gossip in the background. (There’s some kind of drama involving Kenjiro Minami, in the grade above them. Mila doesn’t know him well enough to follow the conversation—the most she’s ever heard is when Yuri complains about “that kid who’s always bouncing off the damn walls.”)

The hour passes, slowly at first, and then faster as she begins to feel nervous. Scouts from some of the best companies in the world are sitting in the audience right now, not to mention her parents, and her aunt and uncle, and probably her cousins, and maybe even her grandmother. A Babicheva, as the family saying goes, never does anything by half.

At about ten minutes before her scheduled time slot she leaves the dressing room. A Babicheva never does anything by half, so this performance had better be spectacular.

Mila doesn’t get stage fright. She gets nervous, sure—more nervous than she likes to admit—but any fear she feels is usually manageable. If she’s a little more anxious than usual tonight, then it’s because there’s more riding on this showing than there normally is.

“Mila.”

She turns around, and there’s Sara, standing with a grin at the top of the staircase.

“I have to finish getting ready,” she says, “but I wanted to see you.”

“I’m glad.”

“You know, in Italian we say ‘en bocca al lupo’ before a performance. And you respond with ‘crepi il lupo.’”

Mila repeats it for her. “What does it mean?”

“‘Into the mouth of the wolf.’ And for you: ‘may the wolf die.’”

With Sara’s words behind her, she takes the stage.

As soon as the music starts (as per the cliché), all trepidation vanishes from her mind. She doesn’t pay attention to the eyes watching her, or try to catch a glimpse of her grandmother in the second row. This dance is all there is, for minutes that stretch into the illusion of an eternity.

The applause is uproarious as she takes her final curtsey, and she exits with her ears ringing.

Her own performance finished, Mila lingers a while longer in the wings, waiting. Sara is due up soon, and Mila would like to see what she’s been working on. Sara has refused to show her anything during their practices together.

She’s dancing in one of the fifth-year directed projects; a six-minute solo to an aria Mila doesn’t know the name of. She watches as Sara takes center stage, giving a light curtsey to acknowledge her audience, the wry grin on her lips masking any nerves she might feel.

The piece is exquisite—Mila doesn’t know the girl who composed it, but she probably has a future in choreography—and Sara’s expressive style only serves to accentuate its more elegant features. The audience, too, is enthralled, Mila notes with pride, though she pulls her gaze away from those seated quickly, eyes drawn back to the performance.

Sara finishes with a flourish, to clamorous applause. Mila wants to join in, but if she so much as breathes too loudly backstage Lilia will hunt her down.

When Sara notices her she beams and rushes over, dragging her back to the greenroom to wait before curtain call. They sit off to one side, slightly apart from the clump of first-years clustered at the center.

“Your performance was fantastic,” Mila says.

“So was yours,” says Sara. “I have a confession to make to you: I’ve never actually seen _Giselle_.”

“You want to know something?” Mila leans forward, lowering her voice. “Neither have I.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“I won’t deny it.”

“By the way,” says Sara, “you still haven’t told me what you’re doing next year.”

Her voice isn’t admonishing, only amused, and Mila thinks for a moment about how to explain herself.

“It took me a while to make the decision,” she says, “but here it is: I’m staying on next year to complete my education.”

Sara grins at her, squeezing her hand. “I’m glad. Maybe we could sign up for an elective together.”

“How do you feel about pas de deux?”

She laughs. “Is that even an option?”

Mila shrugs. “First time for everything.”

“You know I’m always willing to duet with you, whether it’s in the studio or not.”

“Either way,” says Mila, “we’ll have to keep rehearsing together next semester. I think it really helped.”

“I don’t know,” says Sara. “What if I’m too distracting?”

Mila raises an eyebrow. “You’ll have to try harder than that.”

The door to the greenroom opens, and Mickey steps in. He falters when he sees them sitting together, but after a minute he pulls up a chair at the other end of the table.

“Did you watch his act?” Mila asks in an undertone. Sara nods.

“ _Serenade for Two_ ,” she says. “Though he was the only one performing. I was…moved.”

Someone else comes flying through the entrance, much more energetically than his predecessor. Emil immediately finds Mickey and begins talking excitedly at him, mouth moving so fast Mila can’t quite tell what he’s saying.

“He’s making friends.”

“It’s good for him,” Sara says. “Maybe when we come back next year he won’t be such a wet blanket.”

Mila checks the time and is surprised to find that it will be Anya’s performance soon. That means they’re halfway through the second act already. She really should make an effort to watch her roommate’s piece (and more than that she wants to), so she stands, holding her hand out to Sara.

“Will you accompany me?”

Sara takes it. “To whatever adventure lies ahead.”

* * *

“You’ll be fine.”

Yuuri stands backstage, waiting as J.J. and Isabella finish their pas de deux. There’s only one more piece after theirs, and then it’s time for his showcase.

“You’ll be more than fine, actually. You’ll be good. _Great._ You’ll be great.”

Yuri stands off to one side, refusing to acknowledge either of them.

“Victor.” Yuuri spins around to face him. “I appreciate that you’re trying to help, but it’s bad luck to wish me well before a performance.”

“You’re right.” Victor offers him a sheepish grin. “Honestly, I’m a little nervous myself.”

“At least you can’t fall on your face in front of everyone and make a complete fool of yourself.”

Victor looks like he’s about to contradict him, but then remembers that he’s supposed to be superstitious and shuts his mouth.

“Fair point.”

J.J. and Isabella make for the wings, and now Yurio is due up. Victor and Yuuri watch him glide onto the stage, back arched, arms out, as the Agape theme begins to play. Yuuri wants to be able to focus on the performance, but even as he surveys the scene, he finds his thoughts circling back to his upcoming debut.

Yuri’s piece will be a tough act to follow. He can’t let himself be outclassed by a second-year. In the back of his brain he encourages the notion: if he focuses his attention on competing with Yuri, it distracts him from being anxious, even if it won’t make the feeling go away completely. Nothing ever will, not Victor’s reassurances or his own (though he finds it more difficult to hold onto the later). It is simply something he lives with, peacefully on some days, less so on others, but he’s come a long way this year and he’s determined to show that here.

Yurio finishes, and Yuuri steps forward, pulse pounding in his ears. Only a few seconds left now until he must begin.

“Yuuri.”

Victor is behind him again. Yuuri turns around, expecting to see a grin or another placating expression, but Victor’s face is serious.

“Merde à toi.”

Yuuri nods his thanks, and then the music starts.

Dancing to Eros, Yuuri is himself and not himself. He spent days—many of them, almost the entire semester—pretending to be a character in a story, as one often does on the stage. He would imagine he was someone more confident, more attractive, more alluring, someone worthy of seducing the great Victor Nikiforov.

The Victor Nikiforov who loses all sense of reason where his emotions are concerned and grins like an idiot whenever Yuuri—well, anything, really. The Victor Nikiforov who, this entire time, has only wished for Yuuri to play the part that intimidates him most of all.

To play himself, here, is a challenge he did not think he was equipped for when he came to Moscow. He never would have thought himself capable of charming someone as talented and popular as Victor. And yet Victor is only human, after all. A human he can bring to his knees, Yuuri thinks, with more than a bit of pride. _He_ , Yuuri, and not just his sultry Eros self.

During his life, he has heard many different expressions that purport to describe what it truly is to dance. Out of them all, flying may be of the more generic variety, but that’s what it feels like now. Yuuri soars across the stage, lighter than air, lighter than he has ever felt.

Tonight, it does not matter what will happen tomorrow, or next semester, or next year. It does not matter if Victor moves far away and Madame Baranovskaya decides to kick him out of the Academy (and in the heat of the moment, he thinks: _she can try_.)

The future can wait. He has been fortunate these past months—more fortunate than he thinks he deserves, sometimes, but that doesn’t impede his gratitude. Whatever else happens, he has had this.

He receives his first-ever standing ovation from the audience. He bows graciously, ducking back into the wings as the curtain lowers. He has just a few moments before he needs to go back on again for the final curtain call, but before that he needs to see for himself the most important reaction of them all.

“Victor! I did great, right?”

Somehow—and this is cheesy, Yuuri admits, his ears burning just at the thought of it—somehow, when Victor beams at him, it’s the best praise he could receive.

* * *

After the bows have been made and the curtain closes for the final time, Yuri attempts to melt into the crowd and find one of the few people he knows who aren’t wholly insufferable.

This proves to be as difficult a task as ever, as random audience members keep coming up to congratulate him on his performance. (“Such beautiful unconditional love!” “I was deeply moved.”) He doesn’t mind the praise—enjoys it, really, after all the hard work—but it’s still tainted by Victor’s saccharine subject material.

If he’s honest with himself, though, there was a moment—not more than that, but up onstage it’s difficult to tell how long a moment really lasts—in which he thinks he might have realized why exactly Victor would want to pick this theme.

And he’ll never admit it to anyone, not even to Otabek, or to Yuuri, who is a little too good at subtly coaxing out information, and least of all to Victor. (But from the way Victor congratulated him in the wings just after the performance, with that damned twinkle in his eye and everything, Yuri thinks he already knows.)

The crowd slowly meanders its way to the reception hall, where refreshments and music have been prepared in honor of the occasion. Here Yuri at last runs into his grandfather, who has to leave soon but gives him a firm hug, murmuring about how proud he is. Yuri ducks his head to hide a flushed smile and pretends there isn’t a lump welling up in his throat.

Mila comes up to him and gushes about his piece for a while, and in return he grudgingly admits that she didn’t do too bad herself.

“I hear you’re staying next year,” he says.

She nods. “I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“You wish.”

They continue like this for a while, and then Sara comes up and whisks her girlfriend away. Yuri makes obscene hand gestures at Mila while Sara’s back is turned, and she rolls her eyes at him.

Bored with hanging around the fringes of the party, he’s almost resolved head back to his room so he can finish packing when there’s a light tap on his shoulder. Thinking it’s another admirer he whirls around, and draws up short when he comes face to face with Madame Baranovskaya. She speaks before he can open his mouth.

“You did well tonight, Yuratchka.”

He blinks, the words swimming in his ears.

“Th—thank you,” he stutters out, face burning.

“If you keep working hard to put on performances like that,” she says, “then next year I will allow you to pursue that accelerated course of study you’ve been begging me for.”

His jaw hangs open. “Are you serious?”

She raises a stern eyebrow at him— _Yuri Plisetsky, when have I ever not been serious?_ —and then she smiles. The expression seems out of place amidst the harsh angles of her features, but Yuri is oddly moved.

“It will not be easy for you,” she says.

“If I wanted easy,” says Yuri, “I wouldn’t be here.”

“Good. I shall keep in touch over the summer about drafting your schedule.”

“Lilia.”

Yakov elbows his way between them, pausing briefly when he notices Yuri.

“You did well tonight.”

Even after all this time, Yuri thinks, the two of them still talk alike, the same as when he was a kid. He thanks his teacher, and Yakov returns his attention to the headmistress.

“Vitya would like to talk with you about his decision to sign with the Mariinsky.”

 _The Mariinsky_. That reminds Yuri, he should really—

“Yura.” Victor claps an arm around his shoulders. “Are Yakov and Lilia giving you a hard time because of how amazing you were at the gala?”

“No,” he says, shrugging out of Victor’s grasp. “They’re talking about you. As usual.”

“What do you think?” he asks Madame Baranovskaya. “They want me to be a coryphée.”

They move past Yuri as they continue their discussion. He’s just decided to go find Otabek and complain at him for a while about people being annoying, and then he hears someone shouting his name.

Yuri sighs as he catches sight of Katsuki waving at him only a few paces away and heads grudgingly in his direction. There are two girls with him. One appears to be his sister, Mari, who Yuri recognizes from all the Skype calls he’s burst in on, and the other is unfamiliar to him.

“You’re Yuri Plisetsky, right?” The stranger is around Yuuri’s age and looks like she’s in danger of pinching his cheeks at any moment. “You were _incredible_.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles. He frowns at Yuuri. “You were okay too, I guess.”

Katsuki actually laughs. “Thank you, Yurio.”

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

Mari folds her arms. “What’s wrong with the name Yurio?”

He knows she’ll never let him hear the end of it if he continues to protest now, so he acquiesces.

“Yuuri Katsuki.”

“Madame Baranovskaya.” Yuuri hastily corrects his posture at her approach. “Thank you for allowing me the opportunity to work with Victor this year.”

“You pair well together. I hope there are more collaborations in your future.”

His cheeks redden, and he ducks his head, murmuring another expression of gratitude.

“If you will excuse us,” Madame Baranovskaya says, “Mr. Katsuki and I have some things to discuss.”

Yuuri’s face makes it clear he has no idea what’s going on, but his sister, smirking a little, gives him a push forward, and he trails after the headmistress. Yuri takes his leave, mind turning to the one person he hasn’t yet been able to find, when—

“Otabek!”

He hurries forward, then draws up short as he realizes his friend is deep in conversation with a suited figure. Otabek catches sight of him and makes some polite, apparently amusing remark to the stranger, who laughs and claps him on the back before moving on. Otabek walks up to Yuri.

“Your piece was brilliant,” he says, before Yuri has a chance to ask him anything. “I had no idea you and Victor were putting something like that together.”

“That was the plan,” says Yuri, “surprise the school.”

“It worked.” Otabek smiles softly at him, and Yuri feels a tug in his chest, the kind that has become unsettlingly frequent ever since Otabek started giving him that look more often.

“Who were you talking to just now?”

“Oh.” He shifts, smile fading a little. “That was one of the recruiters they sent from the Mariinsky.”

“Then…I take it your performance went well?”

“ _Our_ performance,” Otabek corrects him, and Yuri thinks there’s a spark of pride in his eyes. “And yes, it did.”

“When do you leave?”

“As soon as I can, but I’m in no hurry. I’ll have to figure out what to do with the apartment. They say they can help set me up with a new one in St. Petersburg.”

“That’s great.”

“You sound very enthusiastic.”

Yuri scowls at him. “It _is_ great. I’m happy for you.”

“I know you are.”

Otabek looks troubled, now, and Yuri feels guilty because he doesn’t want to ruin the night for him. He starts to turn away, but Otabek’s hand catches his shoulder, and he dips down to speak close to Yuri’s ear.

“Let’s go somewhere a little less crowded.”

Yuri nods, grateful, and Otabek cuts a path through the room for them. Out in the hall it’s quieter, but there are still a few people scattered here and there, so they head down another darkened corridor.

“If you want the truth,” Otabek says, “I can take care of the apartment and leave for St. Petersburg in a couple days. But…I don’t have to.”

He’s making a deliberate offer. Yuri considers it carefully.

“I think you should go when you need to,” he says.

“I told you I’d to teach you how to ride my motorcycle.”

“You can do that next time.”

“I promise there will be one,” says Otabek. “A next time.”

“I don’t need you to promise me anything, Beka.”

“But I do.”

His gaze is fierce, stubborn in that way they both share. He moves forward, and Yuri takes a reflexive step back, unaware of the motion until the blades of his shoulders hit the wall. He can no longer escape from the truth of things.

“Otabek,” he whispers, and the other boy brings his hand to Yuri’s cheek, brushing a gentle thumb across his lips. He scans Yuri’s face, a flicker of hesitation running across his eyes as he realizes how close they are.

“May I—

Yuri pulls him forward by the collar of his button-down shirt. (It’s crisp and white, loosely tucked into his pants and set against actual honest-to-god _suspenders_ , and Yuri just wants to—)

And then he doesn’t have the space left to think about the end to that sentence, because Otabek’s fingers have found their way through his hair, teeth scraping across Yuri’s lower lip. Something about this has felt inevitable for a long time now, Yuri realizes, but he doesn’t stop to consider it further as Otabek presses him back against the wall.

Footsteps at the other end of the hall bring them back to reality.

Otabek is the first to break away, and there’s an almost guilty tension in his features before he schools them back to something that tries to resemble tranquility. There is no sign of another person in the vicinity, but the two boys have been reminded that they’re very much in public.

“Always an interruption.” Otabek smiles, a little ruefully. Yuri has the immediate urge to pull him back in again (by the straps of those suspenders, no less), and—

He forces out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, squaring his shoulders and looking Otabek in the eye.

“Like you said. Next time.”

Otabek nods. He considers Yuri for a moment, and he can’t hide (or perhaps doesn’t care to) the quirk at the corner of his lips.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Otabek sighs. “I should find that scout.”

“Yeah.”

Here they are again, daring each other to make the first move, neither of them wanting to.

“Beka.”

Yuri pauses, then tentatively threads his arms around Otabek’s waist, burying his head in his shoulder.

“I’ll miss you.”

“I know.” Otabek strokes his hair, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

“And someday we’ll dance together again.”

“For the whole world, if you want to. Or for just us.”

“Do you promise that too?”

Otabek doesn’t say anything, but Yuri knows what his answer is all the same.

“You won’t forget?”

“Not for as long as I live.”

“Sap,” Yuri mutters, shoving him away, but he’s smiling as he follows Otabek back down the hall.

* * *

Three days after the gala, Yuuri leaves for home.

Mari and Yuuko have already headed back, but they’ve given him use of their hotel room, since the dorms have closed along with the school for the summer. Phichit stays with him on the first night, before he hops on a flight back to Thailand.

“You could always come visit me in Bangkok,” he says. “My family would love to have you.”

“I think I need to go home for a while,” Yuuri tells him. “But I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good, ‘cause I mean it.”

He sees Phichit off at the airport, and when he returns the hotel feels too quiet. He decides to call Victor, who’s staying in a room of his own until he leaves with Otabek for the Mariinsky, the same day that Yuuri’s flying out.

Victor comes over and they while away the time playing cards at the coffee table, the day’s news flashing across the screen in the background. Yuuri doesn’t invite him to stay the night. He doesn’t need to. There are two beds in the hotel room, but they only use the one, curled close against the dark.

That night at the gala, as they walked back to the dormitory together, Victor pulled Yuuri aside to tell him that he’d chosen to sign a contract with the Mariinsky.

“I’ll be leaving soon for St. Petersburg,” Yuuri remembers him saying, voice light and careful. “It will be good to be home.”

“I’m happy you made a decision. How did Lilia take it?”

“She told me it was about time I got out of her hair.”

Predictably, there were several companies that offered Victor a contract after the performance, scouts that had been keeping an eye on him since his international tour years before. The Mariinsky has both reputation and rigor, and that, Victor told Yuuri, is what matters.

Yuuri thinks it over, lying next to him in bed. If Victor moved overseas it would be easier, maybe—the New York City Ballet is doing some very innovative things, Yuuri hears, and that’s always been the sort of thing Victor enjoys. It’s why he stayed on at the Academy, even after he got a taste of professional work.

But privately, in his heart of hearts, Yuuri doesn’t want him so far away, and he’s grateful that next year he and Victor will remain in the same country.

When they do leave Moscow it’s together, even if they’re bound for separate destinations.

Nikolai Plisetsky drives them. He sits up front with Yuri, silent but for the occasional murmured Russian comment to his grandson. The remaining three boys are crammed together in the back, Victor in the middle with his head on Yuuri’s shoulder, Otabek staring out the window and looking marginally uncomfortable.

Yuri’s grandfather waits in the car while the rest of them head into the airport. Victor and Otabek’s flight is first, so that’s the terminal they set out for. Victor and Yuuri walk ahead, with Otabek and Yurio side by side a few paces behind.

When they reach the security checkpoint near the entrance they stop, knowing this is the place to bid their farewells but not quite knowing how. Otabek and Yuri share a long look, and something passes between them, inscrutable and so intensely personal that Yuuri averts his eyes.

“Yuuri.”

Victor wraps an arm around him, pulling him in tight.

“I adore you,” he says, and Yuuri curses his heart for racing so easily at the words.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“How about this: in a couple months I’m coming for a visit.”

“What?” Yuuri backs away, trying to discern any hint of teasing on Victor’s face. “Are you serious?”

He nods, smiling.

“I’ve checked the rehearsal schedule the recruiter gave me,” he says. “I have a week off in August, so I booked a flight to Japan. I hope you don’t mind.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “Won’t you want take that time to see your family?”

“I’ll already be living in St. Petersburg, so I can see them any old time.”

“You’re really coming.” Yuuri smiles, then. “I’ll let my parents know so they can prepare a room for you at the onsen.”

“If the two of you are done being sentimental idiots,” says Yuri, “Beka and Victor should get lost, or they won’t make it through security on time.”

“Right.”

Yuuri looks up at Victor, a little shyly—they are in a crowded airport, after all, though no one seems to be paying them much attention. Victor pulls him into a tight embrace, wrapping his arms snugly around his waist.

“Two months isn’t that long,” he murmurs. “I think I can make it. You’ll have to call me every day.”

“Every day?”

“Too much? Then however many days you want.”

“Every day doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

Victor guides his chin up and they kiss, while Yuri makes faces of disgust in the background and Otabek stares pointedly at the ground. They pull away too quickly, reluctant but aware that they are very much in public, and the airport is not like the bar they visited a few months ago.

“I’ll miss you,” Yuuri says.

“And I you.”

Yuri walks up and jabs Victor in the chest. “You’d better keep an eye on Otabek for me. If you don’t I’ll hunt you down.”

“I’ll live in fear of your wrath nightly.”

“And you.” Yuri turns to Otabek. “Make sure Victor doesn’t do anything stupid like he always does.”

“I will consider it my duty.”

“Good.”

Yuri turns his back on them and begins to walk away. Otabek and Victor exchange a glance, and Victor shrugs. Yuuri chases after him.

“Don’t you want to say goodbye?” he asks quietly, though the others are out of earshot.

“Katsuki,” Yuri says, pulling a face of long-suffering exasperation, “does it _look_ like I want to say goodbye?”

“You’ve got me there.”

“We already spent the past ten minutes on goodbyes anyway. Better to just get it over with quickly.”

“If that’s what you want.”

Yuri grits his teeth. “You’re an insufferable menace, Katsuki.”

Bracing himself, he dashes back to where Otabek and Victor are still waiting, throwing his arms around his friend. Otabek stumbles back a few paces from the unexpected force, but recovers himself quickly.

“You’d better come visit me, asshole.”

“I did promise.”

Yuuri can’t see Otabek’s face, but he hears the grin in his voice. He also knows without having to look that Yuri is blushing furiously. He turns to Victor.

“We’ve already had our passionate embrace.”

“What’s one more?”

“ _No_.” Yuri breaks away from Otabek, glaring at the pair of them. “You’ll be late enough as it is.”

“He’s right,” says Yuuri.

“I suppose he is.” Victor sighs. “Goodbye, Yuuri.”

“Goodbye, Victor.”

They stare at each other until Yurio takes Yuuri by the arm and hauls him away. Victor doesn’t turn around, offering instead a last wave.

Eventually, he is no longer in Yuuri’s view.

 _It’s only until August_ , he reminds himself. He thought, upon awaking this morning, that he might cry and make a scene in front of everyone, but he feels strangely calm. Perhaps none of it has sunk in yet, or perhaps he’s simply relieved to catch a break for a few weeks.

Just not for too long.

After he ran into Yuri at the gala, when Madame Baranovskaya drew him aside, she told him she was pleased with his progress over the course of the past year.

“I’d like to have you en pointe again in the fall. I believe we have many new horizons to reach for.”

Yuuri remembered, at the time, something Yuri Plisetsky had once said to him. _Why leave the Bolshoi?_

“Madame Baranovskaya?”

“You’re wondering why I bother with all this.”

Yuuri dropped his gaze to the carpet, embarrassed, but the headmistress was perfectly calm.

“It takes a great dancer to be prima ballerina at the Bolshoi,” she said. “It take a brave one to start something new.”

They reach Yuuri’s terminal, and now it’s time for the second round of goodbyes. Yuri kicks at the ground.

“See you in September, I guess.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Yuuri says earnestly, and the younger dancer snorts.

“Sure.” He pauses. “I would’ve made you pirozhki, but I didn’t think they’d let you take that past security.”

“It’s a nice thought, at least.”

Yuri nods. They stand there awkwardly, feeling as though they should say something more but neither quite sure as to what that could be. Finally Yuri screws up his face, eyes squeezing shut as though his next words pain him intensely.

“Take care of yourself.” He adds in a rush: “I don’t want you getting lazy over the summer. Next year it’s going to be me who gets the final performance slot at the gala, not you.”

“I’ll be a fifth-year,” Yuuri says. “Maybe I’ll direct something like Victor.”

“Yeah right. You’d better not start spouting any more of that love garbage, or if I throw up on you it’s your fault.”

Yuuri smiles at him. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

Yuri grants him the tiniest of grins in return, fleeting but wholly genuine.

“Now you really should leave.” He hesitates again, and then he pulls out his phone. “Here. Put your number in and I’ll message you so you can call me in case you can’t understand what someone’s saying to you.”

Yuuri is pretty sure that an airport in one of the world’s biggest cities has translators available, but the gesture touches him. He types out his contact information, putting a smiley-face next to his name. Yuri looks at it and rolls his eyes.

“If you don’t leave now you’ll miss your flight.”

“I know.” Yuuri wavers a moment, and Yuri glares at him suddenly.

“You aren’t thinking about trying to hug me goodbye, are you?”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“Good.”

But it seems silly for them to just walk away from each other, so they settle on a stiff handshake.

“Goodbye,” Yuuri says.

For once there is no trace of either scorn or annoyance on Yuri’s face, his irate expression replaced by a sober calm.

“Until next semester.”

Yuuri makes it through security without having to call him, though he does send a message as his plane is idling on the concourse to let Yuri know he boarded safety. The text the younger boy sends in response is curt, but obviously relieved.

After living for nearly a year in this city, Yuuri thinks, trying to catch a glimpse of the skyline through the tiny window, it will feel strange to leave it. He’s almost forgotten what it’s like to be in a quiet, sleepy small town where the grocer knows his name and his parents and their parents before them.

He thinks about what Madame Baranovskaya said, about greatness and bravery.

Next year Victor will come back, but in his absence it will be up to Yuuri to become the fifth-year prodigy. After he graduates he can join Victor in St. Petersburg, or Paris or London or New York, or wherever else they’d like to go.

Maybe, he thinks, they will start something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so so much for sticking with me this whole time. It has been an honor and a joy to write this fic for you, and I hope you’ve had as much fun reading as I had creating it. Feel free to hit me up on tumblr @creedoftheseamstress for more fandom-related rambling and memes, I love meeting new friends. And stay tuned for my next Yuri on Ice AU, featuring a certain truth universally acknowledged, coming March 26th!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hippogriffs Soar When the Lake is Frozen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9792866) by [myglassballoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/myglassballoon/pseuds/myglassballoon)




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